Crimson and Viridian: Everything Burns
by Last.Echo
Summary: "In the time of Gods and monsters, what is the worth of a man?" After Chitauri's invasion of New York, Natasha Stark and the Avengers try to find 'normal' again, only to realize the world they once knew is lost, now, and replaced with one full of super villains, monsters and Gods. Meanwhile, Loki's exile on Earth continues. But can he be trusted? Part 2 in C&V series.
1. Waking Up To Ash and Dust

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **One year later ...

* * *

Chapter One:

_Waking Up To Ash and Dust_

_Earth-199990_

_One Year Before Registration Act…_

"Storm's coming."

Natasha Stark follows the man's gaze to the distant horizon where sky meets ocean. There is a light dusting of clouds above them, but otherwise, the sky isa perfect blue—the sun bright and hot above them. Natasha doesn't have her suit to measure the weather's temperature, but it's warm enough that she'd opted out of a suit jacket and kept the top buttons of her collared shirt undone—her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, but this was mostly to keep them out of the way while she went about her inspections.

"Looks like it," Natasha says, smiling cordially at the man as Pepper takes the Stark Tablet their lawyer is offering to Natasha. The old man continues to squint at the distance for a minute longer so Natasha uses the time to sign off on the tablet when Pepper holds it out to her. "Well, Mr. McCall, everything looks good. You've done fine work here. The factory will be up and running according to schedule, and it's all thanks to you and your men."

The man blinks away from the sky and his thoughts and takes another moment to digest her words. His grin is belated when he turns it upon her, but no less sincere. "The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Stark! It's the least we could do after all that you and the Avengers did for our city!"

Natasha hides her grimace well. "Yes, yes. Terrible—tragic. All of it."

The old man nods solemnly, "All those people …"

Natasha's lawyer hums in sympathy—and it makes Natasha want to elbow him in the face just to shut him up before he says, "We should never forget how many lives were _saved _because of the Avengers. We've got Iron Woman—well, _Ms. Stark_—to thank for that."

Truly, Natasha has no words. Anger banishes all thought—until the man smiles again and says, "That's right. That's what I'm sayin'. You're a hero, Ms. Stark! A _true_ hero!"

Her responding smile is more habit than anything else; behind her, Pepper is ushering the lawyer away before he can say anything else to piss her off. "Thank you. That's very sweet of you, Mr. McCall," Natasha says at last. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Yes, yes! Of course! You're a busy woman!"

He shakes her hand with more excitement than she can muster in return and when she retreats to the car, her idiot lawyer is nowhere in sight. Pepper is waiting for her inside while Happy warms the engine and Natasha feels a smile, unbidden, as she listens to the couple discuss the day's agenda. There is something so charming and intimate about them, even with the way they interact while they work. Sometimes, Natasha wonders if the chemistry had _always_ been there—because it was _undeniable_ now.

"Sorry about that," Pepper says, aiming for nonchalance because she knows pity will only put Natasha on edge. Natasha sees right through the façade but appreciates it all the same.

"I'm used to it," Natasha says, her eyes falling to the small stack of magazines Happy keeps stocked by the refreshments. Any issues with her on the cover are thrown out immediately—but still. Suddenly, it appeared that every girl—from the supermodels to the A-Listers of Hollywood—had decided to chop off their hair and go for the 'messy-chic _Stark-_do'. It was ridiculous. And the reason she was growing out her hair again.

Neither Pepper nor Happy choose to respond to her her comment—and, instead, Pepper spends the next half hour listing off Natasha's itinerary while Natasha loses herself to her thoughts.

"—pick him up, first. We'll go straight to the office afterwards—"

"Hey, Pep. What do you think about going international?" Natasha says, her eyes listlessly scanning the passing scenery. She doesn't see any of this—she's looking towards the future of her company and all that she's ever wanted to accomplish. She doesn't remember many goals—remembers she'd been living day-to-day for much of youth, but that was when she was making weapons for the government. Since the Iron Woman had come into the picture, the only thing she'd accomplished that she considered of any worth was the arc-reactor-run Tower. She doesn't want to focus all her attention on the suits. She owes it to Pepper, at the very least, and Rhodey for _sure_, to do something _noteworthy_ with her company. Something that can _save_ lives without the Iron Woman's aggressive methods.

"Were you even _listening _to me?" Pepper sighs, exasperated.

"Airport. Office. I was listening," Natasha murmurs. "What do you think?"

Pepper sighs again and exchanges a look with Happy through the rearview mirror. Eventually, she says, "Stark International?"

Natasha smiles—almost dreamily. "Has a nice ring to it, yeah?"

"I guess I can see it." Pepper actually sounds intrigued, which was more than Natasha would have hoped for. She'd expected a bit of a fight from the other woman. "Yeah. Why not?"

Natasha glances to her, sitting up. "Great! I—"

Pepper's eyes narrow sharply and—_there it is. "_Wait. You're just going to stick me with all the work, again—aren't you?"

Natasha balks, feigning ignorance. "What? _No_. Pepper—would I do that?"

"Yes," Pepper says curtly, crossing her arms over her chest. "You _did."_

"And now you're _CEO!_"

Pepper rolls her eyes and returns to her tablet. "_Mm_-hm."

* * *

She doesn't sleep very much anymore. When she does, she dreams.

But they're not dreams.

They're memories.

_They're_ _nightmares._

* * *

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?" Bruce says over the sound of Happy slamming the trunk shut over his belongings.

Natasha can't muster a lie quickly enough because he's caught her pinching the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut as her mouth stretches in a yawn. There are bags under her eyes concealed by heavier makeup than usual, but it's easy to spot them when he's been watching their progress over the past year. Bruce exchanges a knowing look with Pepper, then Happy; their worry is plain, but Natasha appears oblivious—and that's _odd._ She's normally so good at putting up fronts, the fact that she can't seem to be bothered to _now_ seems to be only cause for concern.

Natasha shrugs helplessly as they slip into the back of the car and yawns again. "It's been a busy week—meeting deadlines and all. I'll be fine come Saturday, I'm taking the day off." She glances to Pepper. "Oh, by the way, Pep—I'm taking Saturday off."

Pepper smiles, rolling her eyes fondly. "I think we'll survive a day without you."

"Are you taking me to the office, first?" Bruce asks, watching as Natasha rests her head back against the seat and closes her eyes.

"If that's alright? Pep's punishing me for something. I haven't figured it out, yet."

Pepper sniffs indignantly in Natasha's direction then smiles at Bruce. "We're doing interviews today, but she doesn't want a new assistant—" Natasha groans sleepily her distaste of the idea. Pepper nudges her with an elbow and says, "—but she doesn't realize it's physically impossible for me to take on all the responsibilities of CEO in _addition _to playing personal assistant."

"Who's playing?" Natasha mutters. "It's a serious gig."

Bruce's eyes narrow. "You mean Loki hasn't been pulling his weight around Stark Industries?"

Natasha snorts, peering through her lashes at Bruce—truly, she looked seconds away from sleep. Bruce didn't know why she seemed so adamant to fight it. "He can't be involved with Stark _anything_ if I want to maintain my government contracts. Plus, I don't want to deal with the maelström of Fury's righteous wrath if he thinks I'm allowing Loki more liberties than he's comfortable with."

Bruce chuckles, shaking his head. "Who knew housing a fugitive God could be so political?"

"_I_ did." Natasha says, closing her eyes.

Bruce doesn't disturb her again for the duration of the ride, even when he wants to tell her about his research during the time he'd spent in Africa. She's never really interested in hearing about the people he helps during his travels, though she is always willing to listen. Sometimes he thinks it's because she doesn't want to contemplate how there is an _entire world_ out there that is in need—and that there is _nothing_ in her power to alleviate that much pain. She doesn't understand it's about the little things—that being able to make a difference, even if it's only a _small_ difference, is still enough.

Pepper waits until she knows Natasha is too far gone to be easily awoken before she sits forward to reach out a hand to rest over his. She looks him deeply in the eyes and says, "I just want to thank you. I know it's not easy—jumping between New York and the rest of the world. The little time you can spare—I know it means _everything_ to her."

Bruce nods, patting her hand and looking to Natasha. "How is she?"

Pepper sighs and sits back. "Some days are better than others. Little things set her off—put her in these moods where she won't talk to anyone. She just locks herself up in the workshop and works on that new suit of hers. I'm worried. I think even _Loki's_ worried—"

"How _are_ things with Loki? Has he been behaving?" Bruce asks seriously, looking to Pepper to read for any deception in her answer. Pepper is loyal foremost to Natasha, and for some reason Natasha has gotten it into her head that their enemy was someone to be trusted _not_ to reign terror upon them anew.

Pepper shrugs—seems just as bemused by her own words, "He's—everything is pretty normal, actually. He and Natasha give each other a hard time, but they seem to genuinely get along. I have no idea how those two could have become _friends_, but—" There's something about the way that Pepper won't meet his eyes that leads Bruce to suspect there might be more to tell. Pepper shakes her head and lets out a nervous laugh, "It's actually a little like having two Natashas' in the house. When he's around, she doesn't hide herself in the workshop as often."

"'When he's _around'?_" Bruce zeroes in on this particular statement and sees Pepper grimace almost imperceptibly.

Pepper bites her lip and manages to hold eye contact for half a second. "He goes away now and then. Exploring his 'prison', he says."

"Uh-huh," Bruce grunts, sitting back in his seat and frowning at Natasha. "I really hope she knows what she's doing."

Somewhere in a not-so-distant part of his mind he thinks he hears the Hulk grunt. For once, they are in agreement.

Loki is not to be trusted.

* * *

Nathan Garrett drinks every night as if it is his last on Earth—and it might very _well_ be.

_Cancer_, they'd said.

_We won't know until we've run more tests …_

_… possibly only __**months**__ to live._

So this was it. This was his life. An empty home and an unremarkable career as a biologist and research scientist. This was all he had to show for himself—all he had accomplished.

And it was _nothing._

_"Pity … is unbecoming_," says the voice—a cold presence that seems to encompass the Garrett Castle. It echoes throughout each chamber and the cobblestone halls until it reaches him. "—_of a descendant of my line."_

Nathan sobs—he sobs out of futility and he sobs for himself—sobs because _this is it!_ And _how do you move forward f_rom this? How do you find the will to move forward when your life is _gone—marked_. He was coming upon the end of his story and he felt _alone_ and seized by a familiar shortness of breath that is _fear._

_"You should not wallow in your own misery. You must use what time you have left to make a difference. Go, now—and retrieve my Blade from my scabbard."_

"Why won't you _leave me alone?!"_ Nathan wails at the disembodied voice.

_"Go. Find my tomb. Retrieve the Blade and you shall know power unlike any other."_

Garrett's arm slews across his desk, scattering baubles and paperwork everywhere. The flames of the fireplace seem to jump with his anger—but he's been drinking. It's just his imagination.

_"Go,"_ says the voice.

With a roar of anger, Nathan rises, crashing through his office and tearing down the hall and through various corridors. The voice does not speak again, but the presence surrounds him all the same—ever watching. His grief forgotten, he feels only _rage_ and the urge to inflict pain. As he reaches the underground tunnels, he laments having not encountered a manservant to demonstrate his rage upon. It doesn't matter to him that this is unlike his usual manner—that anger has never been something he's ever been prone to giving in to. He's blinded and his thoughts are scattered.

Finally, in the deepest, dankest, recesses of the dungeons, he finds it.

The tomb of Sir Percy of Scandia.

The memorial is a large replica of his ancestor's armor—all sleek black metal. Tentatively, Nathan approaches the tomb as his anger, too, dwindles to nothing—feels as if it has been twined in a thread, which his ancestor has grasped and now tugs free from his chest, undoing him completely. He feels himself unwinding—his muscles relax and his anxieties leave him in a breath.

"_Take my Blade, Nathan. Your heritage,"_ urges the voice of Sir Percy. "_Take my legacy—and make it yours."_

Swallowing, mouth numb from whiskey, Nathan reaches out and grasps the handle—and pulls.

* * *

When they reach Stark Industries, Bruce brings the leather attaché Natasha had bought him for his work and it makes her smile. Her expression quickly turns to one of displeasure when they reach her office level and she sees the impressive line of interviewees; they're packed together along the wall like prissy little sardines, disappearing down the hall to the corner where her office is located. She freezes in the elevator and doesn't dare step a foot forward, forcing Pepper to step between the doors to keep the elevator in place.

"Don't be a coward. It has to be done," Pepper says, indifferent to Natasha's dismay.

She turns pleading eyes to her friend but the woman is _stone._ Bruce offers no solace, chuckling and clapping a hand to her back as he steps around her to exit the elevator. Natasha follows them out reluctantly and watches Pepper head off towards her own office. There's another line leading up to Pepper's door, the candidates younger and the line shorter.

"Oh! Wait! What if we trade?" Natasha declares—possibly foolishly, since her mouth hadn't spared the time to consult her brain before speaking.

Pepper stops, casting the _most_ incredulous look over her shoulder. "_You_ want to interview the _interns_?"

Interns?

Natasha can see Bruce's grin out of the corner of her eyes. It's only a flash of white teeth before he ducks his head and wipes his hand across his mouth—like a smile were something you could physically remove.

Inwardly, Natasha groans because—_just her luck._

Well. All she can do now is _commit,_ lest she look like an idiot in front of both Bruce and Pepper. That would be conceding victory—even though she had clearly lost this battle because one way or another, she was going to have some snot-nosed new brat to deal with. Schooling her features of consternation, Natasha nods with as much confidence as she can summon and smirks flippantly. "Yeah. You know better than I do the qualities necessary in an assistant. I'll just end up hiring the first hot guy that walks in. This way, you hire someone _useful_ and I can instill some fear into the new Starklings."

Pepper's eyes narrow suspiciously—probably because Natasha had just volunteered to allow Pepper to hire another—God forbid—_Pepper._ She _loves_ Pepper, but as an assistant? The nagging_ alone_ made up for any neglect she may have ever felt from her mother.

Meanwhile, Bruce is trying to bite back a smile and fails when he pauses long enough to mouth, '_Starklings?'._

Eventually, Pepper rolls her eyes and leaves then with a distrustful, "_Fine_, Natasha."

Natasha exchanges a grin with Bruce and they head off to Pepper's office like two self-satisfied children after a well-executed assignment of devious proportions. She stops by her receptionist to inform her of the change, mostly as an excuse to put off the interviews for as long as possible.

"That's fine, Ms. Stark. I'll let them know."

"Also, let's weed out some of the brats that'll only end up getting on my nerves," Natasha says, drumming her fingers against the counter in front of Mrs. Arbogast.

"And what are your criteria, Ms. Stark?" To her credit, Mrs. Arbogast is quite the multi-tasker, tapping away at her computer without looking up; she'd come to expect all manner of requests from Natasha and this was, by far, the tamest.

Bambina Arbogast had been working as Natasha's receptionist and occasional assistant for the past seven months. She'd proven her value when she'd appeared for her interview and had been promptly caught in the middle of a battle between Iron Woman and some punk mutant calling himself Whirlwind. With all the composure of Pepper Potts herself, Mrs. Arbogast had calmly managed any incoming calls from Natasha's office and helped salvage what she could in the midst of the chaos. Suitably impressed, once the mutant had been carted away by the police, Natasha had promptly hired Mrs. Arbogast without an interview. She is older than any receptionist Natasha has ever hired (did that make her shallow?), but she seemed a perfect fit for the new image Natasha was hoping to create for Stark Industries—soon to be Stark International.

(Mrs. Arbogast also reminded Natasha of M, which totally made _her_ James Bond.)

"Well, for starters," Natasha pauses to think and glances to Bruce. He arches a brow and shakes his head so she nods. "Don't let anyone in if they look like too much of a douche."

Bruce rolls his eyes.

"How do I determine the level of one's …" Mrs. Arbogast crinkles her nose under her silver-framed glasses in disapproval.

"Douchiness?" Natasha smiles while Mrs. Arbogast merely looks up at her, elegant brow arched—completely unamused. "Well, if they're anything like me, don't send them in. I don't need another me."

Mrs. Arbogast nods resignedly and Bruce mumbles, "Right. You have _Loki_ for that."

Natasha automatically stiffens, taking a slow breath. "Oh _jeez_—" Not this again. Sighing, she flashes a parting smile for her receptionist, "Okay. I'll be in Pepper's office, then. Give me five and then start sending them in." She leaves the desk and says to Bruce as they walk, "Don't start."

"You know how I feel about it," Bruce says as they step into the office. It's smells of Pepper's sweet perfume and feels homier than Natasha's.

"I do, which is why I'm telling you to drop it. You've made your point—_points._ It doesn't need to be discussed again."

"I don't _trust_ him."

Natasha settles herself behind Pepper's desk and sits back against the chair heavily. She breathes in deeply, then says in an exhale of breath, "I _know_." She looks up to meet his eyes. "It's not like you're the only one with concerns. I've got Coulson and Pepper riding my ass every other day about it."

Conscious of the interviews that are about to take place, Bruce grabs a spare armchair and drags it next to Natasha so that they're both on the same side of the desk. He sits and begins fiddling with his glasses. "And what exactly does he _do?_ A guy like _him_? He gets _bored._ Sooner or later, he's going to start causing trouble. He's the God of _Chaos_ for God's sake_."_

She hums in agreement, tapping her fingers against the desktop. "Which is why I keep him busy."

Bruce snorts. "Doing _what?"_

"He's my eyes and ears whenever I can't be Iron Woman." She swivels her chair to level him with a deadpan stare. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed. There're kids running around calling themselves 'super heroes' and assholes who claim to be 'super _villains'._ It's like we stepped into the pages of some comic book and it's ridiculous. _And_—all our fault."

"That's not our problem. _Loki_ is the problem—"

"He's not a problem, Bruce," Natasha sighs, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'd tell you if he was."

"_Would_ you?"

"Come on, man. I tell you _everything_."

"Not _everything."_

"More than_ most._"

Banner frowns, but Mrs. Arbogast chooses that moment to alert them over the intercom that she was sending in the first interviewee.

"That's fine. I'm ready," Natasha replies, feeling grateful for the interruption.

Bruce frowns and Natasha can't help but feel the sort of relief one would after narrowly escaping the Hulk's grasp.

* * *

The sword doesn't budge from the scabbard. Nathan tries again—and with every failed attempt, his anger returns to him.

"What is this?" He rages. He appears alone in the dungeon, but he knows he's never alone. The essence of his long deceased ancestor forever haunts him. Drawing away from the sword, Nathan stumbles back, glowering darkly up at the armored visage of Sir Percy. "What _is _this_?! _You've deceived me, wretched spirit! Do you take me for a _fool?_"

But he _is_ a fool, isn't he? Talking to spirits in the dark dungeons of his ancestor's home—what kind of life was this?

_One that is soon to end_, his miserable mind reminds him.

Sir Percy is silent for a time. Far too serenely, he says, "_No trickery, Nathan."_

Nathan snarls, turning his glare upon the blade, still nestled in the home of its scabbard. "Then why can I not draw the sword?"

"_You are yet … _unworthy_."_

"So this was all a _waste_?" What was he even doing down here? How long since Sir Percy's phantom began haunting the castle? Hadn't Nathan done well by ignoring the spirit altogether? He should never have come down here! He should never have—

"_You must prove yourself, Nathan. You must prove that you are worthy of my legacy."_

What had become of him, that he would resort to this _madness?_ (A secret, dark part of him scoffed—for this was surely signs of his mind's deterioration. A sign that his end would come soon.)

Nathan sways on his feet as the rush of his adrenaline leaves him—abandoning him to the whims of the alcohol he'd consumed and his own rapidly declining strength.

He was unworthy.

Unworthy of a _sword._

(Unworthy of _life.)_

Tears run fresh hot tracks down his cheeks.

" … What else have I to lose?"

* * *

Natasha quickly grows fed up with the applicants and Bruce has to step in every now and then to soothe things over before she can lose her patience. She's never been quick to anger, but she's always been quick to lose her patience in the face of stupidity. She liked to think that the one differed sufficiently from the other because she was tired of adding new faults to her personality. Eventually, the pages would run out and she'd be forced to scribble in the margins because if there was one thing that she knew, it was that she didn't know herself at all. She was always discovering knew facets to character; most of them were non-too-flattering and the ones she did not mind were hardly redeeming.

Like allowing a known criminal to reside in her home after he'd not only _betrayed _her, but also nearly set fire to the world.

_Jeez_.

She'd been looking forward to Bruce's visit all week, but she was not in the mood to sit through another lecture on why she was an idiot for allowing Loki to stay with her. She was glad that she'd never gotten around to telling anyone about how she'd subliminally manipulated Thor into thinking it was a good idea to exile his brother to Earth—Pepper knew that Loki was Olson (and dear _Lord_ that had been another migraine and a _half_ just to get through!) but Natasha hadn't thought it prudent to share _this _tidbit of information. People questioned her sanity enough as it _was,_ they didn't need to know that she'd schemed to have Loki return. She was actually a little relieved that Loki spent most of his time doing … _whatever_ it is that he did when she wasn't having him spy on the growing super hero/villain community. He was less likely to get on people's nerves when he wasn't around and that made _her_ life a little easier because, at present, it was a _mess_. With three new projects ready to hit the market and another four in pre-production, plus two new factories and renovations on the old Stark Mansion—she didn't actually have the _time_ to worry about anything other than her company.

This included interviewing for interns (which was only, as it turned out, _marginally_ better than interviewing for assistants. Interns were still humble and a little desperate; assistants were either kiss-asses or arrogant douchebags or _worse—_both.).

They run through more than half of the kids by lunchtime, take a break, and start up again almost immediately after she's swallowed the last bite of her shawarma (Pepper was happy again, more or less, so her health be damned).

"Have you got any winners in mind?" Next to her, Bruce has requisitioned a corner of her desk to set his Stark Tablet. When she looks, she sees that he's looking over molecular structures from a series of different samples.

Natasha shrugs. "Not yet. I'll probably hire a few anyway—_someone_ has to fetch the coffee—but I'm not comfortable with a bunch of kids handling the type of equipment I manufacture."

Bruce doesn't seem to have an opinion on the matter because he just _huh'_s and returns to work. Mrs. Arbogast sends in the next kid and he looks as unremarkable as all the others to have come before him. Natasha was never a socially awkward kid—or _shy_—so she's always had a hard time connecting with those types. It's unfortunate for her that in her line of work, there can—apparently—only be two types of scientists: the shy geeky type, or total arrogant _pricks._ Natasha knew which category she fit into and she wasn't particularly bothered by the fact.

Only Natasha stands to shake hands with the boy (because Banner _was_ the awkward nerdy type), who takes her hand with a shaky smile, then takes a seat hesitantly when she gestures to the chair across from her.

She smiles her charming Stark smile, hoping to ease some of his discomfort. "I'm sorry if you were expecting Ms. Potts. There's no need to be nervous. I'm just filling in for Ms. Potts while my office undergoes … ah—renovations."

The boy blinks. "Oh. I thought—I thought you guys had switched offices because you didn't want to interview all those people for the assistant position."

Startled—even Bruce looks up from his work to glance at the kid—Natasha's smile becomes a little strained. "_Yes, _well—let's begin then. Name?"

The boy looks at the tablet in front of Natasha. She follows his gaze and sees the list of applicants—realizes, belatedly, that his name is printed right next to his profile picture, in addition to a brief character summary (because Pepper is entirely thorough in everything that she does).

He smiles awkwardly and replies anyway, "Peter Parker."

"Parker?" She drawls, grabbing the tablet so that she can at least pretend she hasn't spent all afternoon bullshitting the applicants. Knowing Pepper, the woman had probably done extensive background checks on all her applicants and would have memorized them by name and face and accomplishments. Natasha had obviously done no such thing. She asks, idly, as the thought occurs, "Any relation to cross-genetics specialist, Richard Parker?"

Parker swallows uncomfortably and wets his lips. "Uh yeah—um. He was my dad."

"Very goo—" Wait. _What? _Natasha's head snaps up from the tablet to gawk at him because— "What? _Seriously_?"

Parker's lips twitch in a smile and he nods, watching her carefully. "Uh—yeah. I think—I'm pretty sure it says so in my file."

"Huh. Well—"

She curses herself, somehow feeling like an idiot for not having known who this kid _fucking was._ Bruce is also interested, but he pretends to work so as not to freak the kid out any more than he already has. Natasha taps Parker's face on the tablet and pulls up his file, flicking through the recommendations until she finds his resume—then stops. Richard Parker had been working for _Osborn_ with Doctor Connors on some revolutionary regeneration formula before he'd disappeared. What was his son doing _here?_

She frowns up at him. "Wait. Hold on. No offense, but—I'm sure OsCorp would be jumping at the _bit_ to have you, why ... ?"

"Yeah—well …" Parker shrugs and swallows nervously, squirming in the armchair. His entire behavior was off, but Natasha didn't know what to make of it.

Parker doesn't elaborate further so Natasha allows him his privacy and moves on. "I guess it doesn't matter. You're _here_ now." Scanning his records and resume, Natasha has to wonder how Osborn could have let this kid slip through his fingers. Pulling up his academic files, she has to bite back a smile. "Kid, even if you weren't Richard's son—with _these_ scores, you should be applying for a _job_ not an internship."

Parker looks stunned, eyes darting between herself and Bruce. "I—uh—Well—it's—that's—_thanks."_ Parker grimaces, running a hand through his neatly done hair and mussing it up completely—possibly unintentionally. He sighs, dropping his eyes to the desk. "It's just—I'm still a student. But I really need the money—my aunt—"

Shaking her head, Natasha holds out a palm to stop him. "No. Don't tell me. I don't really want to get into the personal aspects of your life. You're smart. That's all that matters to me."

Parker nods, wide-eyed. "So—do you think maybe you'll consider me for the internship program?"

Natasha exchanges a smile with Bruce to see that they're on the same page. To Parker, she says, "I'll do you one better. How about I make you my personal assistant? I'm down one since—well, _life._"

Parker's jaw literally drops. He sits forward abruptly, like he's barely restraining himself from standing up and jumping. "I—that would be _great_—" He deflates almost instantly back into his seat. "Oh. But _school_—"

She sets the tablet on the desk and folds her hands over it, meeting Parker's anxious expression with total seriousness. "Don't worry about school. You can still be a full-time student. Focus on your grades. Graduate at the top of your class—and I can _promise_ you a full-ride scholarship at any Ivy League college of your choosing."

"Wh—what? You'd _do _that?"

Natasha smirks. "Sure. And as for being my assistant—just come by Stark Tower after school. I'll fill you in on what you need to do."

If it were possible, Parker seems to sink further into the chair from shock. "I—I don't know what to _say_ …"

"Don't say anything yet. I'm not done," she continues and nods approvingly when Parker sits up into a more professional position. "I don't offer opportunities like this unless I think someone _deserves_ it, but you have to be committed to the job. I'm going to ride you hard. No screwing around. You focus on school and you focus on work. No distractions. I want your absolute dedication. I'm talking _long_ hours and _hard_ _work_. You get me?"

Parker nods urgently. "Ye—yeah. Yeah. I understand. _Completely_. You give me this opportunity, and I—I _swear_ I will work harder than anyone in this company. I won't let you down."

Natasha smiles, pleased—and thinks about how thrilled (and pissed) Pepper's going to be. (Thrilled because Natasha actually found the _perfect_ assistant, and pissed because Natasha just found an _assistant_. Pepper was going to have to run secondary interviews for the interns because Natasha's judgment on them couldn't be trusted.)

"You better not," Natasha says, standing. When Parker follows, she holds out her hand and he takes it eagerly. "You start first thing Monday morning. Should give you enough time to get yourself a half-decent wardrobe. Talk to Ms. Potts on your way out. She'll give you a number to a good tailor."

"Oh, but—I—"

"All expenses covered, Parker. You work for _me_ now and I take care of my own."

Still in a state of shock, Parker almost forgets his bag as he stumbles out of the office. Natasha grins, leaning forward to press the line on the phone that would connect her to Mrs. Arbogast. "Tell Ms. Potts I've just found my new assistant."

_"Weren't you interviewing for _interns_, Ms. Stark?"_

_"_Well, I found an assistant, instead."

"_Very well, Ms. Stark. I will let her know."_

Pleased, Natasha turns to Bruce to see him looking up at her, brows raised high. "Norman is going to be _pissed_."

Bruce chuckles, "Osborn? Yeah, I don't think he'll take too kindly to you stealing his prodigy right from under his nose."

"Finder's keepers," Natasha shrugs.

Bruce levels her with a disapproving look that she doesn't buy for a moment. "He's a person, too, Natasha. Not Stark property."

Natasha just smiles serenely. "Not _yet."_

* * *

Pain flares along the right side of his face for the second the Other's hand grips it in his six-fingered hold. Loki does not stumble, nor does he allow any emotion but the faintest impression of irritation to grace his features. This is not, by far, the worst of what is to come. This is only a promise.

"That is enough, creature. I believe he understands the gravity of his actions," speaks a voice—a shrouded figure that's barely a silhouette against the backdrop of space. This is the Hand to the Avatar of Death, but Loki has only glimpsed him in the past. Their missions had never before coincided.

The Other sneers, turning upon the Hand with a look of hatred more passionate than the one he reserves for Loki. "He was meant to _remain_ in Asgard! What use is he to us on _Earth?"_

Here, Loki takes the opportunity to step forward and speak to both. "You must not doubt my cunning. I shall grant us access to the Vault. I still hold many connections within and without Asgardian walls."

"See that you do, little Asgardian," says the Hand with warning and in the next moment—

Loki is standing within the now familiar chamber of Natasha's place of business. Natasha's office is strangely occupied. Pepper Potts sits behind Natasha's desk, pleasantly speaking with a young man. Distantly, Loki recalls hearing of Pepper's intentions to acquire a new assistant for Natasha and smirks, amused, before disappearing—once more unnoticed—just as Mrs. Arbogast peers into the office, and finds Pepper's office. Here, he discovers Natasha alone and working on Pepper's desktop with a remarkably focused expression.

She's not particularly impressed when he makes his form visible to her—merely darts her eyes in his direction before returning them to the monitor, tapping away at the keyboard.

"So, Bruce is in town," she says by way of greeting.

Loki reforms his projection so that it is hovering at her shoulder and looks out through the extravagant view behind her. The windows display nearly the entire city below, and directly across is Stark Tower.

He studies the letters with a small twist of a frown. "That's fine," he says nonchalantly. "I am sure I can manage to keep myself entertained well enough."

He hears her soft snort but the typing never falters. "You know, you don't have to abandon ship every time he comes over. You guys could probably benefit from some bro-time."

"I do not know what that is, but I will have to decline," Loki says darkly, remembering his first and last encounter with Banner following the New York invasion. "I'd rather not have a repeat performance of the _last_ time, thank you."

Banner, like Ms. Potts (when she'd learned of his identity), had taken exception to his unprecedented return. Natasha's overestimation of Banner's capacity to 'let bygones be bygones' had resulted in Banner's impromptu transformation into the Hulk—reminding everyone involved of the Hulk's particular distaste for Asgardians.

"He's cool with it, you know?" Natasha says offhandedly—as if she actually _believes_ this to be true. "He won't flip out on you again. Promise."

Loki looks over his shoulder to frown down at the back of her head. "I'm in no hurry to re-acquaint myself with the _floor_, Natasha. Repeatedly. In the most undignified manner _imaginable_."

He hears her smirk when she says, "I stand by my belief that the Hulk just has a little trouble expressing his affections and—"

Loki scoffs. "That beast is _incapable_ of affection—"

Expectedly, Natasha reacts immediately by spinning in the chair and glowering at him. "Okay, maybe calling him a _'beast'_ is not the best way to make friends."

Loki rolls his eyes. "I have no need of courting friendship with that creature—"

Natasha mimics his expression and grumbles something unintelligible under her breath. Audibly, she says, "_Oh-_kay. You're obviously still mad about that. Fine."

She leans back heavily against the chair and he watches her expression dissolve into something neutral. It doesn't occur to him to inquire about her health or her present condition because he knows she will only attempt to divert his questions with her own. Instead, he follows her gaze and turns his eyes back to the Tower and the Stark name staring boldly back at him.

"Anything new for me?" Natasha asks after a moment—when the silence is too much for her.

Loki hums thoughtfully—prioritizes his list by what he presumes Natasha will find most intriguing. "There is one who refers to herself as The Wasp."

"Real powers?"

"She appears to be able to control the size of her body at will. She can also discharge certain bio-electric blasts. I do not know if these powers are her own, or the result of scientific experiment." Natasha merely nods along with him, frown already forming, and he goes on. "I've met with Hercules—"

"_Hercules?"_

"Yes. He is currently in Los Angels."

"… don't know why I'm even surprised anymore," Natasha mumbles.

"There is man in Chicago who's flesh is stronger than any steel; a strange man of Philadelphia whose powers I do not yet fully understand; a man who is not all man resides presently in Florida—"

"Kinky."

"There are more, but they are largely irrelevant. These are the few who have not come out proclaiming to be heroes of any sort, but ones who truly seem to behold powers beyond that of a baseline human."

Natasha is openly scowling, stress worrying a furrow between her brow. She chews her lip in contemplation as she glares at her reflection on the glass. "I don't like this. Where are they _coming _from?" She looks to him and he can sense her distress by the very way she remains absolutely still. "You'd tell me, right? If—"

"Thanos has nothing to do with this, I am sure." Loki has considered it before, but Thanos has no need of mortals in his army as anything other than cannon fodder. "This may just be the natural way of things, Natasha. Have you ever considered that before?"

"Mutants—that's natural evolution. That _lizard _thing that attacked the school a few months ago? That was _not."_ Natasha replies heatedly. "These were regular people, once. A year ago, Cap and I were the only 'super heroes' to speak of, and only Cap and Bruce are supernaturally enhanced. Either S.H.I.E.L.D. is up to something again, or we have a new player on the board. I don't trust any of it."

"You don't think you're being a little paranoid?" Loki arches a brow and keeps his expression carefully neutral so that she has nothing to take offence to when she glances up to read his face.

Natasha snorts. "Probably. But better safe than sorry. _You _taught me that."

Loki, wisely, chooses not to comment on that.

Natasha isn't wrong. In the last year the country has seen a distinct increase in both criminal and super human activity. A lot of it seems to be reserved to the coasts, but Natasha's homes are located on either ends of the country so to her, it seems like she's being surrounded by these new self-proclaimed super heroes. He is aware of her frustration, even if he doesn't fully understand its source.

Outside, a single black bird swoops past the window and it draws Loki's eyes until Natasha—never one to allow silences to linger long—asks, apropos to nothing, "Do you know the magpie rhyme, Loki?"

Loki blinks, glancing down. She's staring out the window with a thoughtful expression, unblinking. He says, "I don't believe I do."

Natasha hums tunelessly and says, "One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl—and it goes on. I guess you're supposed to count the number of magpies—" A wry smirk twists her lips as she looks up at him. "And _somehow_ you're supposed to be able to predict the future."

Loki snorts, returning her smirk. "I didn't take you for the superstitious kind."

She shrugs, "I'm not. It's something my mom—" She scrunches her nose in thought, "Or was it Jarvis?—it was _probably_—" She freezes and the word is swallowed like something vile. She doesn't have to say it out loud. Loki can hear it all the same, even without delving into her mind. _Obi_. "Never mind. Someone. I can't remember who—they used to count them out to me."

Loki frowns and looks out the window to search for the magpie that had flown by. It's long gone now, without a flock to accompany it. "The rhyme's logic is unsound. It's human perspective."

Natasha hums again, this time in agreement. "Magpies are solitary. They don't see themselves as a flock. It's only that occasionally they stand alone in _company._ There's really only ever _one_ magpie."

Abruptly, another bird appears (or is it the same?), perching itself briefly on the ledge. For a second, Loki thinks it is peering back at them through the window—then realizes it is probably regarding its own reflection with the bewilderment one should expect of such a creature.

As it flies away, Loki murmurs, "One magpie—for sorrow, was it?"

Natasha watches the retreating bird for a quiet moment. Then—

"It's not a good sign, is it?"

* * *

**End Notes: **Titled after the Mighty Thor/JiM story arc due to similar running themes (not plot-wise). Like with the first part, you don't need to have read the comics to read this story (or even have watched the movie, really, by why wouldn't you?). Things ... escalate rather quickly on multiple fronts from here on out. As you noticed, this no longer reads from solely Natasha's POV because there is a lot going on in the background that she doesn't know about. Hope you don't mind. As always, this story is my unique blend of the movie-verse characters in a more comic-verse setting. I left a lot of clues as to where this is headed in the first story, so if you caught them or remember them later as we come to each event here, cookies for you! Every arc is connected. I try not to leave any loopholes. Each story references the story that came before and the story that is to come.

Also, the scene with Loki telling Pepper about who he is has been written. It IS a scene that will be posted, so don't think I'm cheating you guys on that front. However, it's not time yet for that scene. Patience, my dears! And comment! Let me know what you think!


	2. This City Never Rests

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **They're Super.

* * *

Chapter Two:

_This City Never Rests_

"Whoa—what? That looks—_weird._"

"Aw, that? Yeah—you'll be seein' lotta 'im."

"Is it—one of Stark's _contraptions_?"

"Stark wouldn'ta built somethin' tha' looked _that_ lame_!_ Naw—he made it his'self."

"Looks like a … _squid?"_

"_Tha' _ lard-ball? Looks like an _octopus. _S'why we call him_ Docta' Octopus."_

Otto Octavius ignores his coworkers with ease, quite accustomed to their gossip. He knew the chest harness he had created appeared unsettling from even an objective perspective. If he _had_ Stark financing, he might have been able to afford something not quite so—obtrusive. Unfortunately, Stark had no use for a nuclear research facility—she was too busy building self-sustaining energy models and discovering new elements. It was a point Otto chose not to linger too much on—didn't care to tarnish his passion for his career with unnecessary bitterness. He was a nuclear physicist—she was little more than an electrical engineer with the good fortune to be born a Stark. In the end, there was no comparison.

The issue with the harness that seemed to unsettle people was mainly that it was mounted with eight mechanical (admittedly _tentacle-like_) arms that he could control remotely. The harness allowed him to manipulate radioactive substances from a safe distance—but it was bulky and unflattering and in a world manufactured by Stark everything, appearances trumped functionality. Even where safety was concerned, apparently.

This is how Otto keeps his coworkers' words from reaching him. He reminds himself that they are drones of society, content to follow the herd—and his work will be revolutionary, one day. He is certain of it.

* * *

Saturday is over too quickly and Monday arrives just as soon. She can barely remember the days when weekends felt like months and weekdays swept past her in a blur. Those weren't necessarily good times, but she longs for the longevity of her blessed weekends. At least _then_ she wouldn't have to listen to Mrs. Arbogast going _on_ and _on_ over the phone at an unfathomably unreasonable time of day.

Bruce is sleeping in the guest bedroom (_his_ bedroom, in all but name), so Loki is present for breakfast—which means he stares her down without blinking until she grabs a fruit from the (supposedly) decorative bowl to go with her coffee. It's only because Loki made her coffee that she relents, rolling her eyes all the same. She's halfway through her cup and the orange is still sitting beside her mug, untouched, but Loki is too preoccupied to notice.

Loki sits across from her at the counter and picks his way through the bowl with an impressive hunger she thought reserved only for someone like Thor. She watches him devour a series of plums, bananas and oranges while she listens to Mrs. Arbogast on the other line.

"_You must remember that you have an appointment with Mr. Morrison at noon, then another at three with Mr. Williams. Also, Mr. Horgan has been requesting you take a meet—"_

"Okay, okay," Natasha sighs, feeling her head throb. She'll need another three cups before she's up to dealing with any of this. "Just make sure it's on my planner and I'll remember."

"_I've already had to reschedule twice with Mr. Morrison and I can't _tell_ you how many times you've neglected to return Mr. Horgan's phone calls."_

_Ooh_. Mrs. Arbogast was getting _snippy_—which meant one of the callers she was dealing with was getting snippy. Natasha didn't appreciate people treating her staff with any disrespect—and with that thought, she remembers, "Oh, Mrs. Arbogast, you haven't received any calls from Mr. Osborn, have you?"

"_No ma'am, I have not._"

_Hmm_. _Bummer_. She was looking forward to rubbing her victory in his face.

Across from her, Loki has worked a quarter of his way through the fruit bowl. Natasha blinks and half listens to the rest of Mrs. Arbogast's requests before finally being allowed to hang up. She's embarrassed that it's taken her this long to realize that the reason Pepper keeps stocking them with fruit is because it keeps disappearing. But Natasha doesn't _eat _fruit unless it comes pre-packaged … so. She doesn't know how long she sits there staring while Loki eats—but it seems like forever before he notices. She quirks a brow—and doesn't know what else to do with her expression.

"Uh—are you always this hungry?"

Loki doesn't pause eating, clearly unashamed. He waits until he's swallowed before answering. "Not always."

Natasha decides to just accept the response and poses another question instead as she stands. "So, why are you here?"

"Curiosity."

She maneuvers behind him to grab a bag of blueberries from the snack cabinet (watching him has kicked in her craving for something sweet but she doesn't have the patience to peel an orange or banana). She pops a couple of berries into her mouth and moves to stand beside him. She stares at the small mound of peels and apple cores while she determines what the hell he's got to be curious about.

It takes her a minute to remember, "Oh. My new assistant."

"The kid, yes. I'm curious about him. You seemed especially _enthralled_." Loki smirks deviously into his apple before taking a bite. His eyes are slanted with mischief, practically glittering with laughter and she glowers, smacking the back of his head with the bag of berries.

"He's a _kid_."

Loki's only response is to chuckle as he chews languidly. With a huff, Natasha's hand whips out to swipe his apple, startling Loki as he was preparing to take another bite. She chomps an angry bite into the fruit before stalking away.

"Clean up your damn mess," she calls over her shoulder as she disappears down the hall to her bedroom. "And don't leave until I'm done with my shower."

She hears the crunch of his teeth sinking into another apple.

"Wasn't planning on it."

* * *

By the time the alarm goes off, it's already too late. The room is in lock down and then—

And then, he doesn't remember much more after that. Otto Octavius has never felt pain quite like this—has never felt _anything_ quite like this. It's as if his skin is a shell and it's numb and it's vibrating and it's foreign all at once, and inside—_inside—_he's burning hot and cold and liquid and empty space and everything is _wrongwrongwrong._

He doesn't realize he's moving (struggling to crawl away from the agony)—his body seems to have a mind of its own as self-preservation instincts kick in—but he's weak and his limbs are like empty sacks. He's boneless and heavy and _drowning_ and there's screaming in his ears but he's _alone_ and his mouth is clamped shut because breathing _burns_ like every breath is molten lava.

He is in _hell._

* * *

In the background of the Stark penthouse, as usual, nearly every television is turned on with the volume tuned low so that sound follows Natasha everywhere but she can't actually make out what is being said (after all, the purpose of all the noise is to keep her focused, not distracted). Today, for lack of anything else more interesting to watch, Loki has opted for CNN—something neither Natasha nor Loki credit as a viable source for information (only marginally better than the alternatives), relying on Pepper or Rhodey to supply the _real_ news. Mostly, this is because Natasha doesn't care to involve herself in politics more than she has to and Loki's interest in Midgardian affairs was as nonexistent as ever when it didn't involve his schemes.

It is because of this shared indifference that neither of them are watching when the originally scheduled broadcast is interrupted with the breaking news of a horrific accident that has taken place at an offshore nuclear research facility, not but minutes earlier. The number of wounded was still pending, but a reported six casualties had resulted from the event.

Instead, Natasha returns to the bar (their makeshift kitchen when they're too lazy to navigate the penthouse to get to the real one), freshly showered and dressed in a fitted pants suit and heels (it's going to be one of _those_ days). The fruit bowl is half empty and it makes her smile while she looks over the updated work schedule on her phone. Loki is at her side a minute later with two mugs of coffee—one for herself, and one for him. She accepts the mug and sets it on the counter while she scrolls through her list of appointments for the week—spies the creamy tan of his coffee out of the corner of her eye and crinkles her nose in distaste at the saturated smell of sweetener.

_"_You're so gross," she mutters.

"... Hm."

Surprised by the lack of retort, she glances up at him, brows raised—but he looks like he's worlds away, cradling his mug in both hands just under his chin and staring into space like he can see through the dimensions. Leaving him to his thoughts, Natasha shrugs and turns back to her phone.

She's halfway through her week before she notices that Mrs. Arbogast has blocked out a mid-afternoon meeting with OsCorp. It was stamped as having been modified several minutes _after_ her phone call with Mrs. Arbogast this morning, meaning that Osborn's people had only _today_ decided to make the appointment. That Mrs. Arbogast had marked it without clearing it with Natasha meant that it must have been important—or, at least, Osborn must have convinced Mrs. Arbogast that it was important. It wasn't something Natasha would hold past him, given his penchant for dramatics. Idly, she wondered if this was about Parker, or if something _serious_ had come up, after all. She'd _mostly_ been joking about Osborn pitching a fit over the Parker kid because—seriously, this was business and they were _adults._ Businessmen of Osborn and Natasha's caliber didn't bitch to each other in person—there was an art and a dance to the politics of business.

She can't focus on anything else, now, she realizes. Once upon a time, Natasha may have thought to dismiss Osborn as some nobody upstart, but she's long learned her lesson in judging a man by the facades he wore. With a frown, Natasha pockets her phone and picks up her mug. She sips thoughtfully while she struggles to come up with something she has that Osborn might want—because, really, that's _always_ what it came down to. If it were anyone else, Natasha would be analyzing the situation from a tactical standpoint. But _Osborn_—Osborn was something else altogether, which is why she was grateful that their companies rarely crossed paths.

Not that she was _afraid_ of Osborn—but dealing with him would require more time and effort than she had to spare.

She really hopes this is about Parker.

Well._ Kind of._

"Are you busy?" Loki asks suddenly.

Natasha starts—looks to him, brow arched. "What—like, right _now? _No. Why?_"_

He glances at her before he looks to the elevator and sets down his mug. "Because you're about to have company."

"Oh," she says, following his gaze. "That's probably just Parker—"

As if on cue, the intercom chirps and JARVIS says, "_Ma'am, a Mr. Parker requesting permission to—"_

"Send him up, Jay," Natasha says, slurping down the last of her coffee noisily.

"_I should also inform you that Mr. Rogers is with him. It appears he has been given a special clearance code—"_

"What." Natasha nearly chokes on her coffee. She glares up at Loki accusingly. "Why is _he_ here?"

"I told you," Loki says simply, sipping his coffee with more care. "You have company." When she continues to glare, he looks back to her and rolls his eyes. "And, _no._ I didn't give him clearance to the penthouse. Why _would_ I? It's enough to have _two_ Avengers to share a roof with."

"We _aren't_ Avengers," Natasha gripes because she's annoyed and she needs someone to take it out on—despite the fact that she can guess exactly _who_ would have given Rogers a code to her Tower.

"You'll always be an Avenger," Loki murmurs into his coffee with a smile.

Natasha ignores the comment and scowls, "Why does he have to come _here_ of all places. He _hates_ this place."

Loki doesn't bother responding while she continues to grumble. It doesn't occur to her to ask him to leave until the elevator doors are sliding open and a stern-faced Rogers is stepping into the penthouse—leaving a flustered Parker to remain rooted to the spot he's sequestered within the enclosed space. Normally, this would amuse her—but she's distracted by the dark look that descends on the Captain's face when he spots Loki standing closely beside her.

It takes Parker several moments to gather himself and join them—though stays near to the elevator, as if preparing for an escape.

Neither Natasha nor Rogers blink, staring each other down with grim expressions befitting of a battlefield—not a social call. Or, whatever this was.

After a while, the tension proves to be too much for Parker. Awkwardly and reluctantly, he clears his throat, drawing their attention—then smiles. "A-ah. _So_. Captain America and Iron Woman. This is _so _cool."

Natasha blinks, and for her, the tension is gone. Rogers appears startled and he looks over at Parker as if he's only now become aware of him.

"What?" Natasha asks, for lack of anything else to say.

Parker's smile falters with a grimace and he braces a hand against the back of his neck, ducking his eyes with embarrassment. "Ah—you guys don't—um—probably don't remember me—I mean, you didn't seem to recognize me before, Ms. Stark—and that totally makes sense! Because, like, you guys are _super heroes_—so you can't remember _everyone_ you save and—"

"I remember you."

All the blood seems to drain out of Parker's face—and then explodes into twin blotches on his cheeks as his head snaps up to gawk at Rogers. "Yuh—_huh?"_

Rogers is smiling, all dimples as he crosses the room to Parker and extends a hand. "A year ago. During the attack. You were with two others."

Parker's eyes are impossibly wide and it's a wonder he can form words when he can't seem to pick up his jaw. "You—you—_yeah. _That was me and my Aunt May and—" Parker's expression dissolves into one of distress. "Oh. I—I never asked the other woman's name …"

"Things were pretty chaotic. It's understandable. You were very brave. I'm glad to see you're okay." Rogers says. "Your name's Pete, right?"

Parker gapes. "Peter—yeah. Peter Parker—oh! Oh gosh!" Realizing he'd left Captain America with his hand hanging in the air, Parker scrambles to take the hero's hand with both of his. "I'm sorry! I'm such a dunce! Gosh! It's just so—you guys are my _heroes."_

As Natasha watches Rogers interact with her new assistant, she thinks—_there it is._

There's that feeling of inferiority that she only ever feels in the presence of this man—the cool breath of his familiar shadow as it falls upon her once more.

* * *

When they had found him, he had barely been breathing.

Yet, despite the tremendous amount of radiation he'd absorbed, Otto survives. He listens to sounds of the hospital—hears the urgency in voices and words he can't understand—and he doesn't speak (or is it that he _can't_ speak?). He keeps his eyes shut and focuses on his breath—and his body is a prison and his skin is a shell and he's safe _now _and alive …

But there is a white-hot rage and it burns within his core.

He remembers little, but shock provides him with a sort of unfiltered view of the moments just before everything turned _redredred _and then _white._

One thing stands out, and it's only a thought.

(The idle thoughts of a man who had not expected his life to come so close to being extinguished; the idle thoughts of a man at work in his ordinary life and maybe not-so-ordinary job.)

It's just a thought.

Just a name.

(And in his damaged mind, it's a name that is followed by _agony_. A name he now associates with _pain._)

Just a name.

_Stark._

* * *

In the end, it's the weight of Loki's hand on her shoulder that draws her out of her darkening thoughts. She glances up at him to see him watching her, head dipped inconspicuously near to hers. He murmurs, "I can give Parker a tour of the Tower if you think you need some privacy."

She frowns, speaking just as quietly. "I would rather _not,_ but I'm guessing whatever he's here for—" She groans softly then sighs, nodding. "Yeah. Please. I'd appreciate that."

Loki's hand tightens for a moment on her shoulder before he drops it to his side. He looks to Rogers and Parker with his most charming smile. "Mr. Parker?"

This puts an abrupt halt in Parker and Rogers' conversation and they both look to Loki—Parker startled where Rogers' smile has become another grim line.

Natasha mimics Loki's smile and looks to Parker. "Parker, meet my useless assistant, Lucas Olson," she says, hooking an arm around Loki's shoulders.

Parker blinks. "Assistant?"

"Useless?" Loki looks to her with an arch of his brow and a quirk to his lips. He looks amused rather than offended.

The fleeting banter lends strength to her smile and she flashes Loki with a grin before addressing Parker again. "He's going to get you acquainted with the Tower while the Captain and I talk. You understand, don't you?"

"Uh—yeah," Parker's eyes betray him by darting regretfully to Rogers'. He swallows a breath then meets her eyes, looking less like some teenage fan-boy and more like a respectable employee. "Yes. That's fine. I don't mind."

"Good," she smiles and Loki steps around the bar to lead Parker back into the elevator. When they're gone, she doesn't look to Rogers and instead focuses on her coffee. For a moment, she entertains the thought of pouring herself a scotch because whatever Rogers' is here to discuss, she's sure to need it—but she can just about picture Rogers' look of disapproval and that stays her.

"I should have called," Rogers says after a moment.

She looks up at him then—sees the way he stands awkwardly in the center of the room, like he doesn't belong. And—he _doesn't_ belong. Not here. Not in this world. Not in this _time._

(This was _her_ world, not _his_—her _home_—so why was he here?)

"Would you like some coffee?" she asks neutrally.

"That—" There's something suddenly resigned in Rogers' tone. "Yes. Thank you."

She finds him a mug from the cupboard—a fourth of July one because it features Iron Woman, the Cap and the Hulk, which Loki had graffiti-ed by writing 'Stark-Spangled Banner' (Bruce was only amused until he learned who had been behind the prank). She asks, "So—how _did_ you remember Parker, anyway? I mean—I had no _clue_, and I'm—" She brings up two fingers to tap her head and doesn't finish the sentence.

Rogers frowns like the answer makes him uncomfortable. "It's part of the—enhancements. I've always had a pretty good memory, but the serum amplified it by—a _lot_. I can usually memorize something by just glancing at it."

"How nifty." She tops off Rogers' mug because he strikes her as the black coffee type, like herself—and also because Loki had used the last of the flavored creamer.

"But—I'm a visual person. I could look at the schematics for your suit and I might be able to recreate it on paper—but that doesn't mean I understand any of it."

Natasha nods as she refills her mug. "I get it. That makes sense. It's still a pretty neat trick."

Rogers is silent a moment—then sighs. "Listen, Stark, I'm not actually here to antagonize you, if that's what you think."

"_Really." _She smirks wryly as she steps around the bar with both mugs. She hesitates before meeting his eyes—fears for a second that he might actually be able to see through everything and into her deepest insecurities. It's an irrational thought. "Because last _I_ heard, you were back—skippin' to Fury's fife."

He accepts his mug and opens his mouth—but he swallows his words and lowers his eyes, sighing. "What else _is_ there for an old soldier like me?"

"I can think of a few things." Natasha snorts, taking a seat on the couch. Rogers only turns to watch her and it isn't until she gestures to the seat across from her that he moves to sit down. "So, then, why _are_ you here?"

Something she's noticed about Rogers is that, when he's at a loss for words—or struggling to find a delicate way to broach a subject—he does this quirky little angled-nod of his head. In combination with the slight squinting of his right eye, Natasha is already regretting not spicing up her coffee with something stronger. Her eyes narrow and he says, "This—is a little awkward, but Director Fury—"

"You're not off to a good start, Rogers."

Rogers' flinches and ducks his head, hunched forward with his elbow on his knees, coffee mug cradled in a single large hand, his other hand tucked behind his neck. "No—it's—it's just that—I don't have a lot of … my _things._ But—I guess—your—"

It all clicks fairly quickly and despite feeling as if she'd been dumped in a tub of ice water, Natasha spares him the evident pain of completing his request.

He'd come here for his _stuff_.

(Her _dad's_ stuff.)

Of course he did.

Tonelessly, she says, "My dad kept a lot of your things. I think the assets were divided between him, a Ms. Carter and the United States government."

Rogers flinches at the mention of Carter—and Natasha knows she's hit her mark. It's the only reason she can ever be grateful for all those years of enduring her father's obsession; she knew every button to press.

It's petty. She regrets it almost immediately.

She sighs. "It'll take a while to get all your things out of storage. Just leave me your address and I can have it delivered in a couple of days."

Rogers' isn't so quick at disguising his grief. When he looks up, it's written plainly on his face and she almost—almost _cares._

She averts her eyes immediately—settles her gaze upon the copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ Pepper had left on the coffee table. Next to it is Dante's _Purgatorio_—lent to Loki by Pepper because the woman could not deny her enthusiasm at having another scholarly-type to share her literary passions with, even if she was still adamant about her distrust of the Trickster God—which was _completely_ understandable so Natasha couldn't begrudge her this. And it wasn't that Natasha didn't _get_ that Loki was the guy who'd—not but a year ago—been hell bent on subjugating their world. It was just that Natasha really wishes everyone could see the bigger picture. Or, at least, _trust_ that she knew what she was doing.

(Which—she wasn't _completely_ sure she knew what she was doing, but she was _kind've_ sure and that was more sure than most people were about anything anyway and _hello?_ She was _Natasha Stark_.)

It's a moment before she realizes Rogers' had been speaking.

She looks up and stares at him. "Hm?"

He frowns. "I was saying that—I didn't think I had that many things. I didn't keep a lot, and mostly—"

"It's not that there's much _of_ it. It's just that I've gotta find it amidst all the other crap." At Rogers' bewildered look, she explains. "I put your stuff with my dad's stuff. It's all kind've—mixed together. It's going to take a while to sort through it. Your motorcycle is in the garage, though."

Rogers starts a little at that, clearly taken aback. "What?"

Natasha aims for a casual shrug and thinks she succeeds. She has to force herself to keep her eyes on his. "The bike Howard made you. I had it pulled out of storage and brought to the Tower."

Rogers frowns. "When was this?"

Natasha shrugs again. "A little over a year now? Maybe two?

His frown deepens. "You mean … when I—ah—woke up?"

"Around that time, yeah." She takes a sip of her cooling coffee. "I fixed it up a bit—replaced the chain and cleaned out the tank. I didn't tweak with it, though—so … don't worry about _that._ Figured you'd like to have something to remind you of—well, _home._ But—you know—we never really had time to—uh. Talk. Much."

"Not really, no." Rogers says quietly. Then, "We can talk _now_, if you want."

Natasha huffs a laugh into her coffee and arches a brow. "No. I know what you want to talk about and _ha._ No."

Rogers' says stiffly, "I know I'm not the only one who feels it's a little—_dangerous_—to be harboring a criminal within one's own home. Especially with someone as powerful as Loki."

She inhales deeply through her nose and reminds herself that she's been getting better at diplomacy outside of the workplace. Loki is a master smooth-talker and even _she _had picked up a thing or two from him over the past year. She can be civil—even to Rogers. She smiles. "Look, Cap—the Avengers were disassembled for a reason. Not you nor Fury nor anyone else gets to tell me what to do."

Rogers looks like he's straining for patience—and Natasha remembers Romanoff's words about how Natasha can always find a way to crawl under people's skin, even without trying. "He's a _criminal._"

"He also helped us save the _world,"_ Natasha reminds him. "Look, I don't trust him anymore than you guys, but I need him around."

"For _what?"_

"Because. I've got my reasons, okay? If Loki becomes an issue, I'll deal with it."

Rogers claps a hand to his forehead in frustration, nearly spilling his coffee on the carpet. "You can't take him _alone."_

Natasha smirks. "Don't _worry._ I've got Thor on speed dial. It's cool." She's not entirely sure Rogers even knows what speed dial _is. _More seriously, she says, "Look—Fury just needs to feel like he's in charge. That's why he sent you here to check in on me. He's pissed because he lost the opportunity to claim both Loki and the Tesseract."

"That's not what this is about." Smoothing a hand across his shaven jaw, he sighs. "I—look, I meant what I said. I didn't come here to fight. But you've got to understand—people have concerns."

"I _get_ that."

She really does. It's not her fault no one trusts her judgment. (Even if it is.)

She doesn't need people to understand her, she just wants them to stay out of her way. This is something she feels comfortable dealing with _only_ on her own. People poking their noses into her business was only stressing her out the more, because then she had to deal with their (occasionally well-intentioned) meddling and she was already stretching herself pretty thin. For the first time in her life, she feels like an adult and with it has come an overwhelming sense of responsibility that is threatening to consume her completely.

Most days, it's everything she can do not to _drown_ under the weight of it all.

"Cute," Rogers' says suddenly—and she sees that he has only _now_ taken notice of the mug's art and Loki's dedication.

She smirks. "That was Loki."

Rogers falters in taking a sip of the coffee—but he recovers gracefully and offers her a silent truce by way of smile. "This is good."

She takes entirely too much glee in replying, "Loki made it."

She sees his hand freeze as he brings the mug up for another drink. His eyes dart to the mug and there's a second of panic or shock. For a moment, he seems about to set the mug down—then he takes a determined breath and his hand is firm as he brings the mug to his lips.

She honestly can't help but smile—and a part of her hates Rogers a little more.

(She is and will always be the black canvas upon which Rogers' light is yet more blinding.)

An odd ring interrupts her thoughts and she smiles wider, bemused, when Rogers reaches to his pocket and pulls out an iPhone. He fiddles with the touch screen for a moment before he answers, frowning, "Director?"

A second later, the house line is ringing and JARVIS is putting Pepper through on the overhead speakers. Natasha honestly can't make out what Pepper is saying because she's rambling too fast and Rogers' is plugging an ear to better hear Fury.

It's at the same moment that they both turn to the television Loki had left on. She can't make out what is being said but she doesn't need to hear to understand—on the screen, buildings are being demolished by a man with … eight mechanical tentacles?

Between Fury's shouting and Pepper's frantic words, Rogers and Natasha come to the same conclusion as their eyes meet.

"Time to suit up."

* * *

He doesn't find Stark.

He follows the name like a scent and it guides him in the chaos that is his (deconstructing) mind.

There are blank periods in his memory. He remembers awakening in the hospital—remembers the _rage_—remembers the _pain—_then suddenly he was airborne, the city passing him underneath as the arms of his harness carried him across the streets and towards—towards _what?_

(Stark!)

_Stark!_

Below, the screams have melded into a single continuous note of terror. Otto scowls—and with a thought, a mechanical arm sweeps down across the street, sending people scurrying away in fear. Otto forgets his anger for only a moment to admire the arm in awe as it twists and rises so that it is level with his eyes—as one would bring a hand up to one's face to examine the appendage. There's a strange emptiness that he now realizes isn't emptiness—it's the space in his mind that apparently _controls_ the arms of his harness. An unused space that is now active and functioning as naturally as every other part of his brain.

Experimentally, Otto lashes out again with the arms—whips them out all around him so that they are no longer elevating him from the ground. In the split second before he falls, they crush into the buildings around him and suspend him in midair. A manic grin splits across his mouth and there is only _joy_ now.

With renewed vigor, he surges forward, his mechanical arms extending outward, finding purchase in the walls of buildings or the asphalt below, and then propelling him forward. He crosses miles in what feels like seconds and soon he is upon his goal—the Stark Tower looms high in the distance, the Stark name like a beacon drawing him forward.

And then—

He's _falling_.

His mechanical arms are locked, no longer responding, and he's falling before he sees the problem—sees the metal arms clustered together as if roped—

With a roar of rage, Otto stretches out his mechanical limbs and tears through whatever was keeping them constrained. He barely has time to catch himself before he collides with the asphalt, the clawed ends of the tentacles digging into the asphalt with unnatural strength. Behind him, a cheerful voice chirps:

"Hey, buddy! Do you know you're not wearing _pants_? You gotta cover up if you wanna go traipsing across the city like that! There are _children_ present!"

Otto jerks his head to look over his shoulder and spots ...

"What the hell are _you_ supposed to be?" Otto growls.

"Oh! I'm sorry! How _rude_! You can call me Spiderman!"

The voice is that of a young man but there is no way of determining his identity or age because every inch of skin is concealed under a deep red and blue body suit. Otto can make out the silvery pattern of webbing throughout the suit, and eerily insect-like eyes stare emptily back at him from the other man's mask. The man clings to the side of a building several stories above him by his hands and feet—facing _downwards _and without the apparent use of grappling devises—Otto frowns.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Otto grunts, re-positioning his mechanical arms underneath him so that he can rotate his body to face the ridiculous man. The arms hold him from beneath and stretch to their limit so that he is nearly level with the costumed man.

"You know—it's customary to give your own name in return," the man says conversationally, removing his palms from the bricks and stretching his lanky body to a standing position. He crosses his arms over his chest and cants his head curiously to one side—perfectly perpendicular to the ground, his head directly over Otto's. He says after a moment, "No? Well, okay then. I think I'll just call you Doctor Octopus! You know? Because you—"

Otto sees _red. _

With another scream of rage, Otto lashes out with two of his arms, his flesh ones shooting forward as if to follow—but alas, bone and flesh keep them within appropriate distance. He sees Spiderman leaping away to safety, but it is already too late to recall his arms. One metal limb crashes into the side of the building with a boom—followed by the other—and the subsequent eruption of debris and dust blinds him for a moment. When the dust clears, he spots a flash of vibrant color out of the corner of his eyes and wastes no time lashing out with his right-hand mechanical limbs.

A pained scream cuts above all others. It is not his own.

* * *

It's a good thing she keeps a spare of Captain America's uniform and Rogers' is kind enough not to mention it.

Surprisingly, Rogers' puts up less of a fight than the last time when she offers him a lift. Hooking her arms under his shoulders, they don't need to travel far to reach the disruption—it was heading their direction, anyway. Natasha takes the opportunity before they close in to scan their enemy and discovers the relatively normal readings of a human—which, after the Chitauri incident, was a _thing_ she _always_ checked for. But while the man was human, he wasn't _normal._ She doesn't need to recheck her readings because the Iron Woman never makes a mistake—but she does anyway.

"_Holy_—Cap! That guy's emitting some _major_ radiation. _Toxic _levels! We gotta take him out—_fast."_

"Radiation isn't going to be our _only_ concern. What the hell _are_ those things?" Rogers' weight shifts in her arms as he adjusts his grip on his shield—it isn't his regular one, but it's one in a series of models Natasha had been experimenting with (because she was _bored_) and she knows it's more than up to whatever task the Cap puts it to; the Cap is not similarly convinced.

Natasha's frown deepens. "They appear to be some sort of—uh."

Natasha runs another scan as she brings them down upon the nearest rooftop so they can observe the man ravaging the street below. If one dismissed the eight mechanical tentacle-_things_ extruding from the harness he had strapped to his chest, the man looked perfectly normal to Natasha. He was heavy-set and definitely not the type she'd peg as a prospective 'villain'. _And _he was wearing only a _hospital gown_. The limbs were responding as if by some sort of remote control, and she approximated their length at about six feet—although the limbs appeared retractable, so she was prepared to amend this assessment. All of this, though, told her absolutely _nothing_ about what they should expect of him.

Aliens they'd dealt with. Humans with _super_ _powers_ they were _learning_ to deal with.

Octo-freaks? Not so much.

She huffs, bemused. "Huh. Yeah. I don't know. I've never seen anything like that."

Below, the man appears crazed, tearing through the empty street as if in search of something.

"They're silly, huh? I think he looks like an octopus."

Both Natasha and the Captain turn abruptly—and _stare. _Dressed in a skin-tight suit of red and blue and staring back at them with wide, reflective bug-like eyes is—_well_. She has no fucking clue _who_ this is, actually—and she'd thought she'd been doing well in keeping up with the wave of new 'super heroes'.

"Who the—" Natasha glares behind the Iron Woman's mask. _"What_ the hell are you_?"_

The guy's physique reflects someone who is hardly old enough to be an _adult_—scrawny and already bloodied by his efforts against the man terrorizing the city below.

Strutting confidently to stand in front of them, the kid holds out his hand in greeting. "Just your _friendly_ neighborhood I-Pad Man. Spida-mon." The hand begins retracting as he fumbles over his words, "Uh—Spida—mun. Spa—_Spider_. Man. _Spiderman_." He drops his hand and brings his other to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. "_Jeez_—I don't even _know_—just … pick … whatever made the most sense to you."

Natasha snorts, glancing at Cap to see that his is similarly confused. "Is this kid for real?"

She vaguely recalls hearing about a 'Spiderman'—but the vigilante had kept out of the papers since the Lizard incident.

"Who are you callin' a kid?" is the kid's clever response.

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Sorry. My bad. You're _obviously_ a big boy."

"Iron Woman, can we _focus?_" Rogers commands, shaking his head and turning back to peer over the edge of the building. "This guy's making a bee-line for your Tower. We need to act fast."

"Oh yeah." Spiderman is suddenly wedging into the space between them, crouched precariously on the ledge of the building and leaning forward to follow the crazed man's progress. "He's been going on about Stark-this and Stark-that! Can't really make any heads or tails out of it."

Natasha groans. "Goddammit—! I just _fixed_ the place."

"Also! His name is Doctor Octopus!"

Natasha glares at Spiderman while Rogers frowns. "His name is Doctor _what?"_

"Doctor Octopus! _Obviously."_

"It doesn't matter what he calls himself," Rogers says, the furrow between his brows deepening. His eyes meet Iron Woman's over Spiderman's crouched form. "You should take the skies. Rain hell on him from above and I'll take care of him from ground."

"Roger, Rogers!" She salutes, preparing her thrusters and locking her HUD onto 'Doctor Octopus' (she needs to call him something other than 'the _man', _obviously, no matter how ridiculous the name was).

Rogers turns to Spiderman with a concerned frown. "You sure you're good, son? You look pretty banged up."

Spiderman twists around to signal his health to the Captain with a thumbs-up. "I'm good, Captain. Embarrassed, but good."

Rogers nods, "Good," and then Natasha is taking to the air and swerving to align herself with Doctor Octopus' path of destruction.

* * *

From the balcony of Stark Tower, Loki observes Natasha and the soldier synchronize their attacks against their enemy almost effortlessly. Between them, every now and then, he catches a glimpse of the costumed vigilante, Spiderman (who had been carefully absent following the defeat of the reptilian monstrosity, so his sudden appearance was curious). The three heroes have managed to contain the area of damage well, Iron Woman and Captain America more than enough to handle the likes of an enemy of this caliber—especially one barely learning to cope with his abilities. Still, Loki can't help but smile gleefully to himself at the level of destruction being wrecked. He is and forever would be the God of Chaos.

"What the hell are you _doing_?"

Blinking away his thoughts and letting his smile drop, Loki turns to face the furious Pepper Potts. He doesn't have a response for her that wouldn't be stating the obvious, and he is no longer in a position where he would be permitted to speak so casually with her, so he says nothing at all. Behind Pepper, a worried Happy appears, darting his eyes between Loki and Pepper, then the battle taking place only a couple of blocks away.

"Why aren't you out there? Why aren't you helping?" Pepper snaps, seeming to grow all the more infuriated by his silence.

Loki is careful to regulate his tone. Speaking with Pepper is still … complicated. "I cannot interfere. It would only cause more problems for Natasha."

Pepper's scowl twists and it's almost unattractive. "That's crap. Since when do _you_ follow orders?"

"For once, I have to agree with him, Pepper."

Loki feels himself tense instinctively as Banner joins them on the balcony. His grip on the railing tightens and he turns his back to the fighting so that it is not exposed to the smaller man. Midgardian or no, Loki has learned not to underestimate Banner's alter-ego.

"Bruce," Pepper sighs with relief, her shoulders slumping and expression dissolving into one that is more distress than anger. "Oh—thank God!"

Banner offers her a grimace of a smile, but his eyes never stray from Loki's. "Loki is right. He can't be involved. For the same reason that I can't go out there, either."

Pepper looks closer to panicking. "Wait. What do you mean? Why _not_?"

"We're not the heroes, Pepper," Banner says with a wry smile. "_They_ are. People won't react well to seeing us out there—least of all S.H.I.E.L.D."

"If either of us step in to offer assistance," Loki continues for Banner, looking to Pepper. He still feels Banner's eyes, but he ignores it. "Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. will come down harder on Natasha than ever before."

At last, Banner averts his eyes and Loki wonders if he found whatever he was looking for. To Pepper, Banner says, "The Director isn't happy about Loki, and as punishment, he's holding Natasha responsible for any damage caused by him—even if it's to protect the city." He hesitates, and there's a flash of green-fury in his eyes that startles even Pepper. "But—Loki isn't … enough of an incentive."

"I'm not foolish enough to behave in such a reckless fashion. I have control."

Banner sighs. "But—I _don't._ At least, not _all_ the time."

Pepper's eyes widen. "So—if the _Hulk_ … ? _What?_"

Banner nods. "Loki and I cannot risk taking action in any form—because it won't be _us_ that S.H.I.E.L.D. comes hunting down."

"That's—" Pepper looks horrified. "That's _disgusting! _What—_how—_how can they do that?"

Banner shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets. "It's S.H.I.E.L.D.—they do whatever they want."

Pepper turns desperate eyes to Loki—and for the moment, she forgets her anger, "But you have your magic! You can help, can't you? Withou—"

Loki is surprised by how reluctant he is to say, "No. The Captain would know. He'd be duty-bound to report it."

"Our hands are tied," Banner says quietly.

The look of dejection on Pepper's face is so severe that Loki thinks he understands Natasha's overwhelming desire to protect the woman from everything. Happy takes her in his arms carefully and Loki watches as what was left of her composure disappears and she crumbles into his embrace.

It hasn't been easy for Pepper—any more than it has been for Natasha. Both wore their masks with pride, but the façade is thin and they are all raw nerve and tender wounds. What happened a year ago was not forgotten and still haunted them both. There is a bond between them that is stronger than friendship. It's _family_—and for everything that Natasha is readily willing to give up for this woman, he knows that Pepper is just as willing to sacrifice in return—even without a suit of armor or a genius mind, Pepper would lay down her _life_ for Natasha and not think twice of it. The same could be said for Happy, and this sort of devotion was what fed Natasha's—what made her respond, for all that Natasha believed she was as selfish as he, she was a giver more than a taker. She _needed_ to be needed.

It was her greatest fault.

* * *

Spiderman's nimble acrobatics make it easy for him to dart in and around Doctor Octopus' mechanical limbs. He spends too much of his energy taunting the enemy, in Steve's opinion, but it provides he and Natasha with ample opportunity to strike while the Doc is preoccupied with the young man.

The street is a war zone but the damage is contained. Anytime the Doc thinks to venture beyond the perimeter Natasha has set, Iron Woman or Spiderman sweep in to keep him back. Steve's first priority is to ensure all civilians have been cleared. Most had evacuated by the time they'd arrived to intercept the Doc, but there are stragglers and Steve uses the time that Natasha buys him to point them to safety. It doesn't take long for the local law enforcement to arrive, but upon discerning that their suspect was not one officers were trained to fight, they provide their assistance by forming a barricade and blocking off every street that bisects Park Avenue within the designated perimeter.

Overhead, Spiderman has the Doc's mechanical arms tangled in what appears to be … _webbing?_

"Who is this guy?" Steve wonders out loud to himself.

Behind him, Natasha drops down heavily and steps up to him so that they are shoulder-to-shoulder. "Some vigilante that's going to get himself killed."

"He's good," Steve allows—because he _is_. If a little reckless. Steve frowns, watching as Spiderman kicks off the Doc's chest and flips back to land on a lamp post by the balls of his feet. "This is going to be tricky."

"He's human. That's what's going to make this hard. He doesn't seem to have an especially high endurance, meaning if we're not careful, we could accidentally kill him."

The Doc and Spiderman are like a pair of insects, both scaling brick and stone walls with total ease. Where Spiderman seemed capable of sticking to anything, much like his namesake, Doctor Octopus used the pincers at the end of his tentacles to rend handholds along any surface—something he seemed to have discovered in a fit of rage whilst trying to capture the pesky Spiderman.

"I have an idea if you think you can immobilize him without killing him," Steve says after a moment of consideration.

"Got it," Iron Woman responds, her boots propelling her into the air.

While Natasha takes her position in the sky, Steve looks for an opening from below.

"Guys! I don't know if we can beat this guy!" Spiderman shouts as he twists his body midair to avoid a mechanical arm.

"He's still just a man," Steve replies to Spiderman—though he doesn't know if he is heard over the din of screams and blaring sirens in the background.

Spiderman shoots a thick stream of webs from his palm that catches the building opposite, then swings his body across the street in an arc, landing perfectly with his thighs around the enemy's neck. In one consecutive and fluid motion, he arcs his back and into a backflip, pulling the Doc's body with him and sending him hurtling back towards an awaiting Iron Woman who greets him with twin repulsors from above—crushing the Doc to the ground with the tremendous pulse of magnetic energy.

Steve breaks out into a run towards the Doc and Iron Woman—the Doc is down but his metal limbs are still moving. Natasha dodges one in the air as it makes a swipe at her and responds with a repulsor—but another wraps around her ankle and jerks her hard and sends her flying into a communal bus.

Eight limbs sway in the air but do not attack. He is reminded of the snakes on Medusa's head and imagines that these mechanical contraptions are behaving with a sort of _awareness_. The Doc is only human—he can only sustain so much—but somehow those things are still being controlled, and they guard over the prone form of the Doc as if protecting him.

Natasha extracts herself from the bus and blasts her thrusters, rocketing herself towards the Doc. From the other direction, Spiderman swings in, whipping out his free hand to shoot a messy string of webs at the limbs. The eight arms are divided between attacking the two heroes and Steve takes his opportunity to act.

With a burst of his enhanced strength, he sends his shield _flying, _grunting "_Hit_ them hard enough—" In one purposeful arc, the shield cleaves through the eight limbs with ease before returning to his hand. "—and they'll _fall_."

Natasha hovers in the air for a moment, powering down the charges in her palms. With a snort, Iron Woman's voice responds, "Answer to all of life's problems, hm, Cap?

Spiderman drops down to admire their work, toeing one of the severed mechanical limbs. "Nice one, Captain."

Steve frowns, eyeing the limbs suspiciously, "Not so fast—"

"Holy cow!" Spiderman jumps into the air, summersaulting and landing on all fours on the side of a building. In the spot he'd abandoned, the Doc's mechanical limb is still twitching and inching its way towards Spiderman as if seeking retribution. "They're still_ moving!_ That's _insane!"_

"Well, they're no use to him unattached." Iron Woman says. "Let's clean this up. Spiderman, stay put."

"What? Why? I helped, didn't I?" Rebelliously, the young vigilante drops down to the sidewalk.

"Because—you've already been exposed to him enough as it is," Steve replies, trying to sound reasonable. He doesn't want the kid to get the wrong impression—but it's important not to involve him more than he has already involved _himself._

"Oh. Right. Radiation." Spiderman takes a step back and Steve offers him an appreciative nod as he joins Natasha in collecting the limbs. "Here." Holding out both palms, Spiderman shoots another stream of webs around the bundle of tentacle-limbs Natasha was struggling with.

"Thanks," she grunts, dropping the bundle to the ground and kicking them over in Steve's direction. In another movement, she grabs the unconscious Doc by the back of his collar and hauls him nearly a foot off the ground. Iron Woman's golden and unchanging face regard the unconscious man before Steve hears her quiet snort. "Psycho."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. will be here shortly," Steve feels inclined to say.

She doesn't look his direction; he doesn't like that he wouldn't have been able to read an expression off of her, anyway. "Figured. You should get out of here, kid," she says to Spiderman, dropping her arm so that the Doc is sagged against the ground like a lifeless doll. "S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't too friendly with your type."

"Uh—I don't even … know—who S.H.I.E.L.D. _is."_ Spiderman says, rubbing at the back of his head.

"Keep it that way," Iron Woman says.

Hesitantly, Spiderman nods, the kid smart enough to recognize the seriousness in Natasha's tone, even underneath the robotic sound of Iron Woman.

When Spiderman is gone, Iron Woman says, "They've got somewhere to keep this freak?"

"They're working on it."

Steve hears the now familiar pulse and whine of a Quinjet's engines as they approach.

As they await the Quinjet's landing, Iron Woman says,

"It's not going to be enough."

And Steve has a feeling she's not just referring to Doctor Octopus.

* * *

Loki is gone by the time she returns to the Tower. Bruce is awake, so it makes sense. Pepper is all biting sarcasm and warm smiles but a look at Happy tells Natasha that the all had not been well in her absence.

If the surplus of super villain activity had been stressful for Natasha, it had been doubly so on Pepper, who seemed to have taken it upon herself to worry twice as much if she didn't think Natasha was worrying _enough. _

Though disappointed that Loki isn't around so they can discuss this new enemy, she's grateful to spend the rest of her morning with her friends. Parker calls in about an hour later to let her know that 'Olson' had instructed he go home when word of the impending attack had reached them. She'd understood and was surprised when he didn't conclude the call with a verbal resignation.

Instead, he says, "See you tomorrow, boss!" with so much exuberance that it makes her smile, though she doesn't really know why.

'Doctor Octopus' stays on her mind for much of the remaining week. She wants to blame Thanos, but can't fathom what interest he'd have in recruiting humans to serve his cause. Loki hadn't had much to share on the entity, and it wasn't like she could ask Loki to look into it when the Asgardian was supposed to be keeping himself under the radar from Thanos in the first place. The last thing she needed was for Loki to get involved with Thanos again and give the other the opportunity to entice Loki to serve him once again (though another part of her feared what this supposedly merciless 'Titan' would do to Loki if he decided the Asgardian wasn't worth the effort to keep around). She wishes she understood more about Thanos—about _everything._ She needs to know more so that she can learn how to defend against it, and while Loki is willing enough to share, she knows she's never going to get the full story from him—knowledge was their power and how they kept themselves one step ahead of each other.

No. She would have to find her own way to deal with the upcoming storm, with or without Loki's aid.

* * *

**End Notes:** Oh, you guys. You're too awesome. Really hope I can continue to do justice to these characters as they begin to develop and grow. Whether you're a comic reader or a fan of the movies or _both_, prepare yourselves, because I've plotted for what I hope will be an epic journey for our Avengers and our beloved Trickster. I have to apologize for this chapter because I'm sure there are some glaring mistakes I have missed in my editing, but I am so tired right now and have been every night this week as a result of craziness at work (deadlines. woo!) so I'll have to blame that. But, I hate missing a scheduled posting, so I hope you can forgive the terrible post. I'll hopefully have the chance to look over it again tomorrow.

I'm obviously taking liberties with the origin stories of some of these baddies. I feel it's important to _provide_ an origin story in the first place, even if it's brief, because that's part of the Marvel charm. I hope some of you can appreciate the salutes to both the movies and the comics. It feels a little like what the writers of the Marvel movies must have felt—trying to put together a new world with old characters and stories that are beloved by so many and then awaiting judgment. But, I'm so grateful to those of you who have been following since CV. Can't thank you enough! Hopefully, you can enjoy my rendition and interpretation of these new characters as you've enjoyed Natasha and the others from the Avengers.

I feel inclined to point out that Doc Ock is neither a pushover nor a weakling, and he actually gave Spidey quite the beating during their first stand-off. However, in this case, it was a combination of his disorientation due to his accident and the aid of two, arguably veteran, (though they've only been heroes in the movie verse for a handful of years) that brought about his defeat. We'll learn a tad bit more about how he came about his powers, but for now, you get a sampling of action.


	3. When You Never See The Light

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Stop fighting it.

* * *

Chapter Three:

_When You Never See The Light, It's Hard To Know Who's Caving_

The following day, Natasha is unpleasantly surprised when Parker shows up for work.

"Dear _God_, Parker! What happened to your _face?"_

Natasha gapes at the young man's sheepish expression, darting her eyes between the busted lip and swelling under his right eye. There are a few scrapes along his jaw and the bridge of his nose, but they are mostly irritated a soft red.

"Sorry, ma'am—I guess I wasn't that quick," he explains, flushing scarlet as he runs a nervous hand through his hair, disheveling it. "I tried to get away before—things got too heavy. I—I sorta … _fell."_

"Into someone's _fist?_ Jesus—! Let's get you some ice."

She ushers him into the penthouse and leads him to the bar. Bruce is already there and fishing out one of his Fat Tires from the mini-fridge. Parker takes it with some hesitation, applying it gingerly to his eye, then lip. Natasha continues to stare, unabashed, feeling vaguely horrified. She's always been aware of the dangers being Iron Woman presented to her company and her employees—but somehow this struck her in an entirely new way. She swallows past the sick feeling rising in her throat and tries to ignore the queasy mess her stomach is twisting itself into.

"I'm really fine," Parker insists, wincing. "I think it looks worse than it actually feels."

Natasha exhales, shaking her head in disbelief. "Well, we can't go out like that, so I guess we'll be doing work in here today."

It works out for the better in the end. She takes him to her office where she can introduce him to some of the new tech he'll be required to familiarize himself with. Bruce leaves the penthouse shortly before them to check into the lab and Natasha spends most of the early morning with Parker going over her expectations. She doesn't want just another errand boy. She sees in Parker the potential to be infinitely more. He's clever, if shy, but almost immediately she finds herself taken to him. He can be an incredibly charming kid once he forgets his discomfort and it is something Natasha is pleased to discover.

"Eventually, I may even be inclined to allow you semi-free reign of the lab—provided you show me that you can be trusted to handle the equipment," Natasha explains as they ride the elevator to the R&D department. They arrive on the floor she knows Bruce is most likely to be skulking and hands Parker his new badge, which he accepts carefully and with a look of wonder. "Do you know what your focus is, yet?"

"I was thinking—biophysics?"

Natasha nods. "It's a good field. Not one I can help you _much_ on, but I can provide you with all the equipment you'd need. I know several of the big names in that field, as well, so if you ever want any introductions, just say the word."

"T-that's really—" As usual, Parker doesn't have words to express his gratitude and Natasha doesn't help him find them.

They reach Bruce's lab and Natasha thumbs the ID pad. She doesn't need to carry a card because her print is the override code to the majority of the programs running in her buildings. "I'll get you set up once I think you're ready. First, let me introduce you to a friend of mine. You've met him on several occasions, but I don't think you've been formally introduced."

As the door slides open, Parker follows her inside. The lab is enormous in size. it is everything and more that you would expect of her labs—and totally vacant of any employees, save for one other.

"Parker, meet Bruce Banner. Nuclear physics genius and our resident expert on all things Gamma."

* * *

While Natasha is acquainting Peter Parker with all that his new job will entail, Pepper Potts is busy running the company that had made Natasha the incredibly wealthy woman that she was. Normally, Pepper's days were spent attending meetings, making phone calls, drafting and overseeing any paperwork that made it to her office, then determining which could be processed without Natasha's consent. Being CEO, it wasn't mandatory that she seek Natasha's approval before signing off on something, but she still considered Stark Industries as Natasha's and knew that Natasha slept a little better if she felt like she was still running the show.

Presently, Pepper is doing none of these things. At around seven o'clock that morning, Pepper receives a call—and not five minutes later, she is alerting Mrs. Arbogast to clear her schedule and pulling out her personal phone so that she can call the _last_ person she'd ever expected to have to turn to.

She doesn't get an answer. The line rings several times before a chill descends upon the room and when she blinks—Loki is suddenly in front of her, face passive, if curious.

"Ms. Potts?"

She drops her hands heavily to the desk in front of her, her phone clanking loudly, and says in total seriousness, "We've got a problem. We've got a _big_ problem."

Loki is rarely without a suit; being a master of deception, it's in his nature to blend in—doing so in a way that still makes him stand out. Right now, however, he's donned in the green and black Asgardian leather that she'd only caught glimpses of in the news when he'd been deported to Asgard to supposedly pay for his crimes. She feels a sliver of fear creep into her stomach at the sight of it—but quickly dismisses it with practiced professionalism.

Soundlessly, Loki steps to the foot of the desk but doesn't move to take a seat. "What sort of problem?"

Pepper chews the corner of her lip in a terrible habit she'd picked up from Natasha. Her eyes drop to her office phone and she grimaces before looking back to Loki. "Natasha's cousin is going to be in town. He'll be expecting to stay in the Tower."

Loki's starts, clearly having not expected the admission (aliens and monsters and super humans didn't garner so much as a twitch from the man, but _this?_ Well, even Pepper has to admit Natasha's hateful cousin has that effect on _many_). "I'm sorry—_what_?"

"Her cousin," she repeats, scowling at the very thought of the man. "Morgan Stark. A monstrosity. The skeeviest—_ugh!"_ She swallows what tastes like bile and is forced to stand and pace out her aggression lest she be forced to strike something and injure _herself_ in the process. "He has been trying to take the company from her since day _one."_

"But the company is under _your_ name, now."

"Yes—and you can't even _imagine_ the earful we received when word reached him. He was _livid_—but Starks don't _do_ angry in your typical fashion. They don't _tell _you they're angry with words—they _show_ you. And Morgan is _the_ most underhanded, repugnant, _horrifying_ little _cretin_ who has _ever_ besmirched the Stark name!"

"I … see you feel rather strongly about this." Loki has the good sense not to appear amused, although she can see a glimmer of it in his eyes. It's the same sort of look Natasha gets whenever Pepper loses her composure and it only infuriates Pepper the more. Loki goes on, frowning—and she'd think he looked almost _concerned_ if she didn't already know how good of an actor he was and that the expression was probably more for her benefit than any real sincerity. "However, I don't understand why you need _me—_"

Pepper huffs, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "Morgan is an idiot, but he's still a _Stark_—which means that, idiot or no, he's still leagues above your average person."

Loki says seriously, "Pepper—you are anything _but_ average."

Pepper averts her eyes, and says, stiffly, "_Well_—even with all my years working for Natasha, Morgan has always managed to play me like a pawn in his little games. I will have _none_ of that." Her eyes narrow to a glare on the particles of dust floating over the sunlight beaming into the office. She is remembering every single time Morgan had abused her loyalty for Natasha to achieve his means, and even if Natasha always came out the victor in these foolhardy attempts to steal the company from its rightful owner, Pepper will never forgive nor forget the humiliation. "That's why I'm calling _you."_

"Pepper, I don't know if I'm really—" Pepper cuts him off with a look that brooks no arguing. There is a message there, and Loki sees it immediately because he lets the rest of the sentence hang and sighs, nodding with a strange sort of resignation. "Very well. What would you have me do?"

"Just watch him. We won't know what he's up to until he's here," Pepper says. Then, with reluctance and a scowl she adds, "_Also_, don't leave her alone with him. Don't let him get into her head. He's family—and that's—Don't get me wrong, she agrees that he's a little shit and he's not to be trusted—but he's _blood_ and that's …"

Somehow, it's an Achilles heel. One that Morgan exploits at every turn.

Pepper doesn't know why she's revealing _this_ to Loki, but she figures he knows more about Natasha than most at this point, so she goes on.

"Morgan—he has a way of screwing with her head. She thinks she is completely impervious to his tricks, but he's persistent. He'll pick at her and he'll pick at her until he finds a soft spot and then he'll burrow himself and—Loki. You can't let this happen. _You can't._ You …"

She doesn't need to say it out loud. He understands.

"I know," Loki says. "I won't."

She nods and exhales heavily in relief. Words hang between them, pregnant and full of so much meaning:

_You promised._

* * *

"Hey," Bruce murmurs, shifting closer. They both keep their eyes on Parker while he's quietly examines the samples Bruce had been working on. Natasha hums to show Bruce he has her attention and he continues. "So—I have a few more things to take care of. I'll probably be spending a week or two more in Bahir—but … uh. I was wondering if it'd be okay if I came back a little sooner—_stayed_ a little longer?"

Natasha shoots him an incredulous grin. "Okay? That's _awesome_." Bruce doesn't return her enthusiasm and continues to watch Parker with a grim expression. Natasha frowns. " … _Not_ awesome? Why? What's wrong?"

Bruce shakes his head and sighs. He slips his thumb and forefinger under his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose, brow crinkling and eyes squeezing. "It's—nothing. It's probably nothing. I just … need a little break."

"Are you going to tell me _why_?" Natasha lowers her voice when she sees Parker's head twitch in their direction. She rests a hand on Bruce's shoulder and murmurs, "You don't do things without a reason. What's going on, Bruce?"

Bruce drops his eyes to his workstation. "We can talk about it when I get back."

Natasha frowns. "You're leaving _today?"_

"In a few hours, actually."

"_Bruce_—!" Natasha is careful to keep her voice a whisper, but that doesn't conceal her anxiety. She tugs on his shoulder, forcing him to face her. "What's going on?"

Bruce shakes his head again with a grimace—forces a smile that makes her scowl in return. "We'll talk when I get back."

Before she can demand a better answer out of him, her phone buzzes once in her pocket—then again. With an exasperated sigh, she fishes out her phone to see she has two messages. The first is from Pepper so she checks it with a frown and finds only the cryptic phrase: **_FAST PACE_**_. _

"What … the—?" Natasha stares at the words for a while longer. When she swipes the screen to bring up the next message it's from an unregistered number. It says: **_Hey, cuz! Can't wait to see you!_**

Dread immediately pools in her stomach and she suddenly feels like she wants to be sick—

She darts back to Pepper's message and _stares_.

"Something up?" Bruce asks, concerned.

Parker makes his way to them and she feels the weight of their gazes like it is something distant. Total dismay descends upon her and a detached part of her brain that isn't going into _Oh Shit!_-mode recognizes that 'Fast Pace' is the exercised term for DEFCON 2. Meaning—

She had less than six hours.

Morgan_._

_Morgan was less than six hours_ from New York.

Morgan was coming for a _visit_.

_Morgan._

* * *

She has Happy drive Parker to school so that she can ride alone with Bruce to the airport. Neither of them are in a particularly chatty mood—for two completely different reasons—but the companionship of the other is appreciated all the same. Natasha hadn't responded to either Pepper or Morgan—in fact, she had abandoned her phone in the lab just so that she could have the excuse of claiming it 'lost'—she was absolutely not prepared to deal with her exhausting and infuriating excuse of a cousin.

Though she means to bring up the topic of what's been bothering Bruce, she completely forgets to do so and too soon she is watching him board the private jet and waving goodbye. She returns to the Tower instead of the office because she only has five more hours before Morgan arrives and it's like sitting on death row with only a handful of people between her and the chair. She needs to reset all the passwords and make sure anything of value—in particular, her _workshop_—cannot be accessed. It wouldn't be the first time her things went missing during one of Morgan's 'visits'.

She sits at her desk in the main room for a good couple of hours running through her security and closing off access to anything Morgan might find valuable. It wasn't that he was particularly knowledgeable when it came to her programs and software, but he recognized their worth and he wasn't above selling off her tech to the highest bidder. The only thing Morgan really treasured was wealth—he wasn't an_ idiot_, but he also didn't seem to realize just how sensitive her technology was and what it meant for everyone if it fell into the wrong hands.

Pepper calls in close to noon to remind her that Morgan would be arriving within a few hours and that arranging for him to stay at a hotel was out of the question—he would be staying at their Tower to spare _them_ the expense of renting him a hotel.

"That's fine. I kind of figured," Natasha replies as she makes her way to the elevator. She'd changed out of her business suit into something comfortable—jeans and a graphic t-shirt—and was now debating changing again into something Morgan would not feel compelled to rebuke her for. As she steps into the lift and taps the basement level on the control panel, she shrugs and decides she doesn't give enough of a shit about Morgan and his opinion of her.

_"I'll be staying with Happy for the week, if that's okay?"_ It wasn't really a question and Pepper doesn't wait for approval. "_Is it wrong that I'm kind've hoping Loki takes an—interest__—_in Morgan?"

"Why would he?" Natasha asks, reclining wearily against the elevator wall. She never would have thought that office work could be just as exhausting as her hero duties. She had intended to lock up the workshop before Morgan arrived—but first she thinks it might be therapeutic to work on one of the suits for a bit.

"_Morgan is trouble. It'd be nice if he got a taste of his own medicine, for once. Maybe actually learn a life lesson."_

"Loki teaching life lessons?" Natasha snorts as the elevator doors swing open to the hall leading into her workshop. "That would be the day."

"_Oh—I need to go. Sorry, there's a—I'll talk to you later. If I don't see you tonight—have a good night. Try to get some _actual_ sleep. For me?"_

Natasha smiles. "Sure. I'll try."

Chuckling, Natasha reaches the large blast doors that serve as one of four entrances into her workshop. The panel to the right of the doors is blank—no apparent screen or insignia of any sort. She pockets her phone and presses her thumb to the center of this panel; immediately, a dark spot appears under her thumbprint and spreads. The locks disengage and hydraulics hiss as the blast doors open.

The Tower's workshop is considerably larger than the one in Malibu. The entire basement level consisted of three underground floors equipped to the brim with technology most engineers and scientists could never dream to get their hands on. Most of it she'd built by hand without the aid of her factories—it was a point of pride for her that she didn't have to share the brilliance of her tech with another. The lowest floor was dedicated to her Iron Women suits—which had steadily grown to be quite a collection—with the upper levels serving more research and development-type purposes.

Basement Level 3 is always on total lockdown. The only people with the access code to that level could be counted one hand so she's not too worried about Morgan getting his hands on any of her Iron Woman gear. It's everything _else_ that concerns her. She works with JARVIS to make sure everything important is hidden and protected behind layers of code. In the past, Morgan had relied on human error to get his way—it was part of the reason Natasha had learned to rely on her machines rather than personnel to safeguard her property. You couldn't _buy off_ machines.

By the time she's done, she's mentally exhausted. She makes her way to the Basement Level 3 feeling paper-thin and weak.

The lights are already on when she reaches Level 3 and she falters as she steps out of the elevator, frowning into the empty—

Movement to her right draws her attention and she turns sharply, her heart jolting in her chest.

"Oh—_Jesus!_" She exclaims, feeling her heart drop to her stomach. Loki looks up at her when she remains where she is, rooted by shock. She takes a breath and demands, "Have you been here this whole _time_?"

Loki is sitting, perfectly nonchalant, at the workstation nestled furthest to her right, fiddling with something in his hand. Around him is a littering of the various disassembled parts to the new War Machine suit she has been working on. Suspended above the table is the skeleton of the chest piece, every vulnerability exposed without its reinforced plating. (She doesn't remember having left _any_ of these things out and spots that the storage unit in the wall behind Loki is open and vacant).

With a smile, Loki raises a hand, waggling his fingers in a wave. It takes her a moment to realize he has part of a gauntlet strapped along his forearm and encasing his hand. He isn't wearing his usual suit jacket, but he is still wearing a deep green dress shirt; he has a sleeve rolled neatly to make room for the gauntlet. In Loki's other hand is a small screwdriver, which he twiddles between his thumb and forefinger.

She gapes. "That is for _Rhodey_! What do you think you're _doing?"_

"I was bored," Loki replies flippantly, returning to his inspection of the gauntlet.

Natasha's eyes widen as she sees him take the screwdriver to the wiring along the wrist and she practically sprints across the workshop, heart in her throat.

She violently snatches the tool from his unresisting hand and Loki laughs. "Relax. I know what I'm doing."

Natasha takes a long, deep breath, her eyes still wide—nearly hysterically, she grinds out slowly, "_No._ You. _Don't._ Just because I showed you a few things here and there does _not_ mean you're suddenly an authority on my designs."

"My apologies," he says, smiling unapologetically.

She glares.

Loki turns his attention back to the exposed wiring of the gauntlet, looking perfectly content to remain where he is. Rolling her eyes, she huffs and pockets the screwdriver, dragging the only other chair over from an adjacent station. She rolls him out of the way, chair and all, to make room for herself. He uses his heel to catch on smooth floor and keep himself from rolling too far, then maneuvers himself and the chair to her side.

From the toolbox built into the workstation she selects a handful of tools, then grabs Loki's arm and drags it in front of her so she can begin repairing anything he may have damaged; Loki allows it and leans into the table on his other arm, propping his chin over his fist.

Gradually, the familiar routine works to sooth her nerves; she asks, "What are you doing here, anyway? I don't usually see you around this time of day."

"Pepper."

Natasha blinks—then frowns—smoothing her fingers along the seams of the gauntlet's wrist. It takes her a moment to figure out his meaning. "Oh. Right. _Morgan_." She finds a small release where the plates lock together and slips the smallest screwdriver into the little nook. The panel along the back of his hand pops up slightly and she wedges it off. "We can handle him. It's been a while since he's gotten one over us."

"I can't imagine there is anyone who can outsmart _you," _Loki says, flexing his index finger when she taps his knuckle. She watches the wiring and joints move as they repeat the process with each finger.

"It's not that," Natasha looks up to roll her eyes at him. "He just causes problems wherever he goes. _You've_ got a brother—you know what it's like_."_

Loki arches a skeptical brow. "That's not how Pepper describes him."

There's surprisingly nothing wrong with the gauntlet but she doesn't mention this to Loki lest he take it as an invitation to start fiddling around with her things. It's not even a matter of her trusting him with her tech or not—she just doesn't like people touching her stuff.

Swiveling her chair to face him, she picks out several other tools from her kit and has him rest his arm along the length of hers so that it is suspended between them and she has easier access to the wiring along the inner forearm. "Morgan isn't anything I can't handle," she switches back to the original subject. "I've fought Gods and an army of monsters. One little _human? _I think I can handle."

"_You_ are human," Loki says with some amusement. He shifts his chair to face her, moving carefully so as not to disturb her while she makes adjustments along the carpal wiring. "I've learned not to underestimate your kind."

She forgets to give him hell for the admission (certainly it must pain him to concede that mere mortals were worthy of a God's concern), distracted with her work. Her gaze runs the length of his arm, from wrist to shoulder, judging the length. "Too short." Loki frowns and Natasha responds in kind. "Damn Frost Giant—why are you so _tall_?"

Loki's expression is conflicted—like he doesn't know whether to be offended or amused. "You've no idea what a Frost Giant truly looks like."

She snorts. "Well, I want to test the rest of the arm, but I'm not sure it'll fit. It's built for Rhodey and—" She studies his arm again, holding his wrist and propping a hand under his elbow to straighten out his arm. "Yeah, it's too short for you. Guess we can test out the chest piece, instead."

"_Joy_."

Natasha ignores him and gets up to retrieve the chest harness from its mount.

"Can you change into something a li—" The material of his shirt shimmers—then dissolves as his shirt is replaced by a skin-tight material identical to the bodysuit she wears under the Iron Woman. She snorts and bites back a smile, rolling her eyes. "Show off."

Loki smirks and rolls away from the station to give her room for maneuvering. The chest piece is considerably lighter than it will be, but even as a mere skeleton, it's too heavy for her to carry without assistance. Clearing a small circle on the workstation, she unlocks the table's interface to allow her to interact with it and taps a few commands. Above her, the chest piece is lowered to her level and there's a jolt as the shoulder joints are disabled and the harness is divided into two parts.

Getting Loki into the chest piece is easier than she'd anticipated, especially when he decides to help her (half way through, after she's already spent about twenty minutes getting the back piece on him) with the use of magic. The chest piece removes itself from its mount and hovers across the air to Loki, slotting into place. She watches the armor knit itself together where it was divided and can't remember if she'd programmed it this way or if this, too, was Loki's doing.

"You're such a pain in the ass," she grouses, ignoring his smirk and stepping into his space so she can check over the chest harness.

"Have you ever thought about incorporating my magic into your technology?" Loki asks as she works a power line from the chest piece to the gauntlet. She is amazed to find that Loki's bodysuit replicated more than just the look of hers—as she leads the power line to the gauntlet the cord adheres to the suit as if magnetized, just as her own would.

"Sometimes," she replies when she's gotten over her admiration. She doesn't want to fuel the massive flames of his ego by complimenting him when she doesn't have a way of phrasing it that won't simultaneously serve as an insult. "Put your hand on my shoulder," she instructs, standing directly in front of him. He does so, his forearm rotating with the movement and giving her access to the back of his arm. While her hands run the familiar task of linking the gauntlet to the power supply, she looks up at him with a wry grin. "Why? Do you want me to build you a suit?"

It occurs to her then_—_not for the first time_—_how impossibly green Loki's eyes are.

Natasha's heart is suddenly beating at too rapid a pace and time seems to have slowed all around so she can't be sure if it's that Loki is taking forever to answer or if it's all in her head as a strange silence descends upon them, because—because it's only now that she's realized how closely they are standing and when their eyes meet everything is electricity and hot. Her insides are squirming with a mind of their own and her breath is gone—far away and her lungs abandoned. Loki's expression is blank—unreadable—and Natasha feels her own go slack.

Slowly—_slowly_—she feels the hand at her shoulder move up to curl about her neck.

She has no words. She feels as if she's been caught in a vacuum and there's no sound—no taste, no smell—only _touch _and she thinks—_how _easy_ it would be …_

If he would just dip down to her level …

Or she rise just a little to _his_ …

It's not like this is the first time she's thought about it. She was thinking about it before she'd ever learned who he _was._

But it's not that easy.

Allowing her libido to rule is how mistakes were made—and people _died_ when she made mistakes.

She swallows and takes a shaky breath. Her heart can't seem to remember its regular pace and it feels as if something in her is being _torn in half _when—she takes a step back.

Loki's arm drops heavily to his side and she can't bring herself to meet his eyes. She searches her desk for anything—nothing and _anything_—while she struggles to rein in her rebellious heart.

They stand this way for what seems like _hours—_and when Natasha finally finds the strength to look up at him she thinks she sees …

Gratitude.

* * *

Morgan Stark was not an unattractive man; he was a Stark. Dressed in the highest of fashions, one could not doubt by looking at him that he was in any way related to Natasha Stark. They shared their fathers' strong features—dark eyes rimmed with darker eyelashes, high cheekbones and a determination in everything that they did. But even so, few rarely thought to associate the two—Natasha was successful and every bit what one would expect of a Stark heir, whereas Morgan was … _not._

When Morgan arrives at the Tower later that afternoon, it is with his usual pomp and disregard for social graces. She and Loki are forced to abandon the workshop in favor of greeting her cousin—and for once, Natasha is almost grateful to Morgan and his impeccably unfortunate timing.

"Natasha! What a _joy!_ You can't imagine the terrible trip I just had! Can you believe they stuck me in _coach?"_

Natasha forces a smile. "Cousin Morgan. What a pleasure."

She is a little surprised when a large duffel is shoved into her arms—more by its weight than anything else—and is a particularly horrified to see Morgan deposit the rest of his luggage with Loki as he sweeps past them and into the penthouse. Natasha shoots Loki a despairing look; he is completely unamused and just _this side of_ homicidal and Natasha grimaces, dropping the duffel and taking Loki's arms to manhandle him away from Morgan's things lest he set fire to them by will of thought. She drags Loki with her to the bar where the counter can serve as a barrier between him and Morgan.

Morgan, for his part, is completely oblivious to her distress—familiarizing himself with the penthouse by touching everything. He's still going on, without a breath, "_Coach?_ How barbaric is _that? _But, I suppose, not _everyone_ can have their own private jet to take them across the world at their _leisure_. Us plebeians can only _dream_ of such luxuries."

Natasha winces and decides—_fuck it!—_finding the brandy and pouring a drink for herself and Loki. To Morgan, she says, "You're hardly a 'plebeian', cousin. It's not my fault you chose to gamble away your inheritance."

Loki accepts the drink and downs it in a gulp. She pours him another and inhales her own just as swiftly.

"Don't be a silly girl," Morgan snorts, shooting her a condescending grin as he plucks at the decorative art pieces Loki and Pepper had arranged on the shelves along the opposite wall. "Those were _investments_, Natasha. _Investments._" He blinks at Loki then—tirade on his monetary woes momentarily thwarted—he abandons his inspection to cross the room and stand in front of them, smirking lecherously at Loki. As if he had only just now noticed the other man, Morgan sneers, "Oh _my_, and who is _this?_ Another one of your little _twinks?"_

Natasha's hand curls over the crystal tumbler and she claps her other one over Loki's fist where it tightens against the counter; both actions are unseen by Morgan, the bar serving as their cover.

Controlling her irritation, she says quietly, "He is a _friend_, Morgan. Show a little _respect."_

"Oh, come now, Natasha—you and I both know you're incapable of having _friends_!" Morgan laughs—a belting laugh that fills the room quickly. He swipes at the tears that have gathered under his eyes and sighs, still grinning. "Not counting your little _lackeys_, of course. And how _is_ the dear _Ms_. Potts, by the way? Well on her way to becoming a spinster, I'm sure?"

Natasha's hand tightens over Loki's and she exclaims (desperately), "Morgan—_please!_"

Morgan laughs. "I kid! I kid! You know I only tease you because I _love_ you, _dearest _cousin!" He looks about himself and arches a pointed brow when he spots his luggage still crowded around the elevator. He then shrugs and looks back to her with a smile. "Now, I've had quite a long journey. I think I'll retire for the rest of the night. You won't mind if I take the master bedroom, do you?"

Natasha sighs, feeling some tension begin to wane. "There are plenty of other rooms to choose from, you don't—"

"_Yes_, but you _know_ how sensitive I am to the light in the mornings."

"The windows are programmed to tint—" Natasha cuts herself off with a shake of her head, grumbling, "Ye—Fine. Yes. Whatever you like."

Morgan is already making his way down the hall, not bothering to await her invitation in search of her bedroom. She can still hear him chastising her, his voice carrying loudly from the hall. "Now, now—speak properly, dear. That's no way for a lady to conduct herself." He snorts. "Though, if you knew anything about being a _lady_, you'd be _married_ by now instead of holding on to this flippant lifestyle. My, I can only imagine what your _mother_ would say …"

His voice drops off when he disappears into her room and Natasha sags with—not quite _relief._ When she drops her eyes to her brandy she notices that Loki's hand has shifted to cover hers. She isn't quite sure for how long their hands were like this and carefully averts her eyes, saying nothing as she detangles their hands and grabs the brandy to refill her tumbler.

"He's not staying." Loki says suddenly_—_severely.

Natasha snorts and she takes a drink, murmuring into the lip of her tumbler. "I _wish_."

She watches the liquid disappear past her lips and then watches the room as it is refracted through the bottom of the tumbler.

"I don't like him. He is _not_ staying."

"Wh—" Natasha snorts an incredulous laugh, dropping the tumbler a little too heavily to the counter. She looks up at Loki, searching for a trace of humor—and finding none. This sobers her and she gapes, disturbed. "He's my _cousin,_ Loki. I don't _care_ if you don't like him. He has every right to be here."

Loki sneers—and she hasn't seen him look so terrifyingly hateful in a _long_ time. "I don't _want_ him here."

She can't believe this. She's not quite furious—but she's angry and—"You're never _here_ anyway. You're always off doing—_whatever_!"

They both turn to face each other, feeling the start of an argument—one that has been long brewing and ignored for too long.

Loki dips his head down so she can see the brightness of his eyes. His tone is level but it's the fury in his eyes that always betrays him—something sharp and acidic. "You can't expect me to stay locked up in this Tower like some _princess_ in a storybook—"

"I _don't!_" She hisses, careful to keep her voice down. The last thing she needs is Morgan sticking his nose into their business. Her heart is stuttering in her chest and her stomach twists—it feels like fear but she does not fear Loki. "You don't see me demanding you tell me where you're _going_ or even when you're coming _back!_ I let you come and go as you please and I've _never_ asked you about what it is that you do when you're gone! You can't just come here _demanding—_no. _No._"

It's the aftermath that she fears.

When thoughts become words—she fears their reception and she doesn't know _why._ Doesn't understand why she's afraid to lend voice to her concerns—why she dreads the very idea of instigating discord between herself and Loki. She doesn't trust him—she _doesn't_—but she _needs_ him on her side and …

(… and she doesn't want to lose him.)

(Doesn't want to lose what they _have._)

She takes a breath—takes a step back—and forces the vitriol from her words. She breaks everything she touches—but this is one thing she can't afford to break because—she's not entirely sure she knows how to fix it once it _is._ She can't meet his eyes so she focuses on a downturned corner of his lips. Carefully, she says, "He is my _cousin_. He can _stay_. You're ... _gone_ half the time, anyway. What does it matter?"

She sees Loki's chest rise and fall; sees his nostrils flare with his exhale. His tone is still livid, but he is calming. Quietly, he asks, "Why do you let him speak to you that way?"

Natasha frowns—blinks up to look into his eyes. "What?"

Loki is scowling. "He treats you like _rubbish._ It's distasteful. But what's worse—you _let_ him."

Natasha huffs, smiling wryly. "That's just … _Morgan_." She shrugs. "He's _always_ been like that. I'm just used to it. It doesn't mean anything."

Loki's eyes narrow. "If he speaks to you that way again I will—"

It's like a punch to the gut. "_What?_ You will _what?_ Hurt him? _Kill_ him?"

Loki sniffs, shaking his head and looking away. He works his jaw like he's struggling to bite back a 'yes!'. Instead, he says, "Of _course_ not. Don't be ridiculous."

It settles her anxiety more than she expected it would. Still, she scowls, angry that the thought had even come up—doesn't know if she's angry with herself or Loki and snaps, "Then _what?"_

Loki looks to her grimly. "I'm a _Trickster_—the God of Mischief. I don't need to _maim_ to get my point across."

She can't help it.

Natasha grins despite herself and looks away so she can rein it in. Her anger and irritation—all _gone_ just like that. She thinks she hates Loki for his ability to work his way through her moods so expertly but at the same time is grateful that she doesn't have to linger on such thoughts for long. She knows she can't trust Loki, but she doesn't like to be reminded of that, either.

"Look," she sighs, stepping forward to rest a hand on his arm. His expression is still heavy and his eyes are dark—so she smiles brightly and gives his arm a squeeze. "He's probably out of cash or running from some loan sharks. Who knows? He'll hide out here for a while and then he'll be gone before you know it. Don't _worry."_

Almost sulkily, Loki mutters, "I'm not _worried_. I'm _angry_. He infuriates me."

Natasha tries not to laugh—attempts a sympathetic smile and isn't sure if she succeeds. "You don't even _know_ him."

"I've seen _enough."_

She bites back another laugh and chokes a little on it. "Wow, jeez. Okay." She looks around_—_frowns at Morgan's luggage_—_and then settles her gaze on the elevator doors. She chews her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Um—let's—then—go. Out. Somewhere." Her eyes widen with a wonderful idea and she looks back to Loki with a grin. "We can bunk in Pepper's rooms! She's staying with Happy tonight so we can have her entire floor to ourselves."

Loki doesn't seem to share her enthusiasm, grumbling, "I cannot believe you are permitting him to take your _room_—"

"_Loki_? We're trying to focus on _not_ being angry, remember?" She brings both hands to the back of his neck and tugs him forward so their foreheads meet. Her grin is infectious because she sees the beginnings of one twitch at the frown of his mouth. "Let's go have some _fun_! Watch some movies! Oh my God—_yes! _Yes! We haven't watched a movie in—_ages!"_

Loki rolls his eyes, settling his hands on her arms so that they're not awkwardly dangling between them. He's trying and failing not to smile and it only makes Natasha's grin grow. "We've been busy fixing my mistakes."

Something about the admission hurts her—but it's not an entirely unwelcome kind of hurt.

Her smiles softens and the pain in her chest blossoms, stretching her lungs and consuming her heart.

* * *

**_Weakling_****.**

**_You are _****weak.**

He sees only darkness and he knows only fear and _rage_—a white hot _rage_ that is not his own. He is alone, trapped in his own meat and it's too tight and too thin. He feels fragile and breakable and _human_ and—the _fear!_ The fear is the only thing that keeps him sane.

_I … won't let you …_

**_You. Can't. _****Stop.****_ Me._**

He cannot allow _Him_ to be unleashed. Must contain … must contain Him …

(Once upon a time, he had a goal. He knew the unquenchable taste of ambition.)

(This is gone now. He is empty.)

(He longs, now, for only _peace_.)

Bruce Banner cannot allow the monster within him to be released—but with each passing day, the creature grows more and more coherent, feeding on his fear to fuel His burning anger. Untamed. The Hulk will not be tamed. He has tasted power—tasted freedom—and He wants _more._

**_Weakling, Banner. _**

**_You are _****weak.**

* * *

Pepper, like he and Natasha, has an entire floor for her convenience. But _unlike_ Natasha's floor—or his, for that matter—Pepper's rooms are warm and welcoming. Though the amount of nights she spends in the Tower are infrequent, her living quarters feel no less lived in. Everything is in soft hues of honey and neutral browns and Pepper's scent permeates the room—and _somehow_, this feels like home in a way even the penthouse doesn't quite achieve. The only influence of Natasha's is the television mounted on the wall that is more than half the height of the wall.

The penthouse holds few personal affections, but within this room alone Pepper has littered the room with all manner of things indicative of her occasional roommates. On the shelves and bookcases around the room, there are countless of picture frames and little nick-knacks that Loki would never have deemed important but are immediately recognizable. On one shelf, there are four decorative champagne flutes, along with an empty Krug bottle laid on its side on a custom stand. In the cubby beside it are three picture frames: one of Natasha and Pepper in their Malibu home, another of Pepper and Happy that Loki remembers Natasha taking, and the last one of all four of them the day after his return from Asgard.

"I thought we were going to watch a movie," Loki says, tearing his gaze from the room to find Natasha where she has made herself comfortable on Pepper's couch in front of the big screen. Natasha has a laptop propped on her thighs, bare feet perched on the coffee table and Loki can see her beginning to zone out the rest of the world by the widening of her eyes.

"We _are,_" She mumbles, distracted. "I just gotta—"

Dropping down on the cushion beside her, Loki plants a hand on the lid of the laptop and motions to shut it.

With a start, Natasha's hand shoots out to keep the laptop open. "No—wait! Hold on! Seriously! I'm just checking something!"

Loki leans into her side to look at the screen but he doesn't remove his hand. "Is that the man who took exception to Park Avenue yesterday?"

Natasha laughs and drops her hands to the keyboard to finish typing in a command. A flood of different windows pop up when she submits the command, each displaying various articles and documentation regarding the man Natasha and Rogers had taken down yesterday. "Yeah. Otto Octavius. There's not really much of significance on him. Nothing, at least, that explains what happened _yesterday_—or what the fuck was up with those _tentacle_-things." Natasha explains this as she maneuvers through different windows, scanning them at her leisure and swapping to the next without waiting to see if he needs more time to read. She seems to forget that not everyone can absorb information at incredible speeds.

"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" he asks, sitting back and dropping his hand to fish the remote he can feel wedged between them. He flips on the television and blinks at the channel it's set to. The volume is muted and that doesn't help him decipher what is going on. He thinks it might be one of those romantic comedies Natasha claims Pepper loves to hate (but mostly loves). There is a couple sitting in a car—the shot shifts to the snowing exterior—and then the car is struck from behind by a large truck.

"They're trying to contain it," Natasha says. "Pretty much—they're summing it up as some freak accident."

"There have been quite a few of those, haven't there?" Loki replies distantly, watching the screen with interest.

"Yeah. Fishy, right?" Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her look up at him.

"If you mean 'suspicious', then—yes." On the screen, the woman is in the hospital. Loki switches on the subtitles just in time to learn that the woman has apparently lost all of her memories.

Natasha is quiet for a moment—then, "We are _not_ watching _The Vow,"_ she says seriously. Loki glances down at her and sees she's scowling at the television._ "_Pepper made me watch that with her and I _hated_ the ending."

"Why?"

She huffs, shutting the laptop. "It was—I guess it was a _kind of_ happy ending—but it was also really depressing. I don't know—I just didn't like it." With that, she stands and he watches her walk away into the adjoining room.

He turns back to resume watching the movie, curious now more than ever by Natasha's vague assessment of the movie. When Natasha returns, it's with a small armful of fruit—which she drops unceremoniously on his lap—a box of PopTarts and two Cokes. He rolls his eyes as he drops the remote to collect some of the oranges that have rolled to the floor; Natasha takes the opportunity to snatch the remote away and pull up Netflix.

"Any preferences?" She asks while he picks at the peel on an orange and she sinks back into the cushions with her PopTarts. Loki shrugs and Natasha hums ominously. "If you don't give me some ideas I'll just make you watch _How It's Made _with me."

"Why bother asking me if you're going to pick what you want to watch, regardless?" Loki replies, leaning forward to drop the orange skins on the coffee table. He can see her grinning out of the corner of his vision but he focuses on his orange and pretends not to notice when she (predictably) begins searching for a specific movie. When he looks up, he recognizes the opening of the movie immediately. "We've seen this."

"I want to watch it again."

"Only because you fancy the actor who plays Mr. Watson."

"It's _Doctor _Watson—and yes, I happen to appreciate looking at Jude Law's gorgeous face. So sue me." Natasha casts him a smirk which he continues to pretend not to notice. He carefully divides the orange into slices and Natasha—never one to appreciate being ignored—slumps heavily against his left side. "I hope you're planning on _sharing_ because I brought those for the both of us."

Which was a lie because Natasha didn't eat fruit unless it came packaged or blended into some unrecognizable and frothy drink.

Loki swaps the orange slices into his right hand and offers them to her wordlessly.

"Aw, thank—_uff_—!"

Before she can react, Loki clamps his right hand over her mouth, cutting her off mid-word. He twists his torso so he has better leverage and watches her eyes widen. It takes her too long to try to fight him off—she grapples at his arm but he cannot be budged. Loki laughs while Natasha squirms and he feels the wetness of the orange slices being mushed between his palm and her open mouth. Natasha sags sideways against the couch so she's lying down and tries to turn her head away to escape his hold. Loki follows the motion and balances himself with a knee between her hip and the back of the couch, extending his other leg to plant a foot on the floor for better leverage.

"Oh, what's _wrong?_ You don't want to share anymore?" Loki grins, finding he has to exert little effort to keep his hand clamped over her mouth.

Natasha glares furiously and begins shaking her head vigorously—either in response or to displace his hold.

Loki continues to laugh loudly and Natasha's glare seems to become less heated, though just as defiant.

Neither hear the elevator doors slide open—nor does JARVIS offer them any warning before—

"What on _earth?"_ Pepper all but shrieks in fright.

Loki pulls away immediately, sitting up and looking over the back of the couch to see Pepper gaping at them from the entrance. Natasha sits up just as quickly, nearly banging her head on his chin and catching herself with a hand on his shoulder.

"I was … _sharing?_" Loki mumbles, truly at a loss for words. He had no idea what had come over him or how to explain his behavior.

He looks back to Natasha, confounded—and she grabs his hand with both of hers and holds it between them. She bows over his hand and slimy, _mushed_ pieces of orange dribble from her mouth and into his cupped hand.

She looks to Pepper, completely sober. "Movie night. And hiding from Morgan," she explains casually, apparently oblivious to Pepper's look of horror and disgust. "Thought you were staying at Happy's. What happened?"

"Uh …" Pepper looks between them—and something inside her seems to shut down.

While Pepper is recovering her faculties, Loki frowns at the mess in his hand and spells it away. It catches Natasha's attention and she glances at his empty hand, then looks up to him with a wicked smirk.

"So—I'm just going to … get some things. Uh—you guys ... just …"

Pepper wanders off, shaking her head all the while, and her words trail off after her.

It's after Pepper is gone and Loki looks back to the still grinning Natasha that he becomes aware of their compromising positions. He's still essentially sitting on her lap, with her upright position now bringing them closer. Natasha seems to realize the situation a second later and her lips part, preparing some sort of longwinded rant to distract them from the awkwardness of this position—but the only thing Loki notices is the light glistening of her lips and he can practically _taste_ the orange and can only imagine what it would be like …

He pulls away—then stands when the distance isn't enough.

Natasha doesn't move—doesn't look at him—her gaze a thousand miles away—and Loki … _can't._

He can't look away from her and he can't afford to take a step close.

It is like madness, he thinks. If madness could be _focused._ Dealing with mortals was beneath him—they were to be ruled not _protected_. They were weak and fallible and incapable of managing themselves. Loki had no love for humanity—but Natasha …

Natasha had earned his attention.

Meeting her had been like downing a very strong brandy when one was expecting to imbibe fruit juice—startling and likely to leave one with a distinct burning sensation. It had been unsettling and shifting in a way he had not expected and would never _have_ expected. She had been startling and unusual and _challenging_ in a way he had never been challenged before. Loki was a schemer, relying on his greater intelligence to win his battles—and Natasha, a mere human, had been the first and only to see beyond what he willed others to see. It was her _mind_ that stayed his hand—her _mind_ that he enjoyed.

This was a game—would always _be_ a game—and he would not allow foolish sentiment to cloud his judgment.

After all, she was still a mere mortal.

Still only a mere _girl._

* * *

The following day, after a disastrous incident at the new factory involving a series of manufacturing errors that were embarrassingly simple to fix, Natasha finds the Tower vacant of its resident God. Instead, she finds Morgan, and she isn't quick enough in retreating back into the elevator before Morgan spots her and waves her over. She's particularly disgruntled to see he's made himself comfortable at her bar.

"Don't look so sour, cousin," Morgan exclaims with a grin, pulling out a second tumbler. "One would think you're not happy to see me."

"Wouldn't want _that," _she grumbles, not bothering with pretenses. It hasn't been a good morning overall and she'd been hoping to see Loki just to give her something to focus on. Last night had taken an awkward turn more than once but it wasn't like it was the first time this had happened. Eventually, they got past the discomfort and things returned to normal. Neither one of them wanted complications of lingering on matters that would only create more problems.

"Share a drink with me. Let us reacquaint ourselves. It's been too long." Morgan is already pouring a second drink and she frowns at the clock mounted on the wall behind him. It's not even noon.

"Not that long," she says, taking on the stool in front of the bar and accepting the tumbler with some hesitation. It was early but—her morning had been rough. Why not?

"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner," Morgan is says, reaching out his tumbler to clink against hers. "You see, I was out of the country when that terrible hoax with the _aliens_ and _monsters_ occurred—"

"Whoa—what—" Natasha balks, her hand stilling in the air before she can take a sip. "_Hoax?"_

"Yes. Hoax. _Obviously_." Morgan enunciates as if speaking to a small child. He smiles patronizingly and says, "_Everyone_ is saying it. You don't honestly expect me to believe any of it was _real._ Aliens, Natasha? _Really?_ I think this 'super hero' business is getting to your _head_."

"Oh my god—" Natasha mumbles despairingly into her drink. "I don't have enough scotch for this …"

"Pardon?"

She gulps the drink at once and slides the tumbler back across to Morgan. She shakes her head, "Nothing. Why are you here, Morgan?"

"To see you, of course. I missed you."

She snorts. "Sure you did."

Navigating around the bar, Morgan takes the stool beside her—a tumbler and a bottle of her finest scotch in either hand. "And where's lover-boy? Had your fill?"

Natasha shoots him a disgusted look—he ignores it, however, refilling her glass before topping of his own. "Morgan. Stop. He's a _friend_."

Morgan snorts, rolling his eyes. "_Right._ You have 'friends' now. I forgot."

"What's your _problem_?" Natasha snaps, growing exasperated quickly.

Morgan shrugs. "Suddenly it's a crime to worry about my only cousin?"

Guilt trips. So _that_ was today's tactic. Natasha sighs into her drink. "No—it's not. Just—there's no need to be so hostile. He's not—he's fine. He's not up to anything, if that's what you think."

Probably.

No—actually—that was almost certainly a _lie_ in the greater sense, but in terms of what Morgan was thinking then, no, Loki wasn't up to anything at all.

"You can't know that. You're a _Stark._"

Natasha snorts—thinks that it would be amusing if Morgan knew just how unlikely it was that his 'concerns' would reach fruition. "I wouldn't worry about him. He's practically royalty. Money isn't an issue for him."

Morgan is quiet for a moment. "Really?"

Natasha scowls at him, tone warning. "Don't get any ideas, Morgan. Leave him alone."

Morgan turns an incredulous smile to her, arching a brow. "Don't tell me you actually have _feelings_ for him."

Natasha balks. "No. Of course I—"

"Because I don't think I need to remind you what happened with my father—and myself. And what _you've_ gone through on several occasions."

She rolls her eyes. "I _know_—"

"You can't trust anyone, Natasha. In the end, family's the only thing you can rely on."

She snorts. "_That's_ reassuring."

"It _should_ be. I know we don't always see eye-to-eye, Natasha," He leans closer, dropping a heavy arm around her shoulders. "But you're like a little sister to me. I only want to protect you. People are vultures. They only want to use us and our name."

She tries to shift away but Morgan holds her tighter. "Morgan—not _everyone_ is like that. Rhodey and—"

Morgan scoffs. "Colonel Rhodes? You mean the man who turned his back on you when you decided to reform the company and pursue a more noble cause?"

"He didn't—"

"Listen to you. He wasn't interested. When you went to him after your announcement he told you to get your _head straight_ and didn't _care._ You don't need people like that. All these people you claim to be friends—they're _leeches._ They _use_ you—_need_ you. But you don't need _them_. You don't need _anyone_—you just need me. Because we're family."

"That's—not even—" She glances at the tumbler in Morgan's hand, seemingly untouched. "Just how many of those have you _had_?"

Morgan retreats back into his own stool with a grimace. His expression is suddenly sheepish. "A few?"

Natasha frowns, hating herself for the concern she feels. "What's wrong, Morgan? What's this _really_ about?"

He sighs, shoving away his drink with a dark scowl. "Nothing. Really. I just—" He takes a breath and when he looks to her, his lips are strained in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I need a place to stay for a few days—that's it. I promise."

She'll regret it.

She always does.

Natasha sighs and finishes off her third glass.

"Sure. Of course. That's fine." She makes an attempt to smile in return. "You know that's fine."

"Thank you, Natasha."

* * *

**End Notes:** Oh, Loki. You don't even know, do you? Also, sorry for the teasing. Thirteen will be your lucky number, I promise.


	4. Not One To Break Promises

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Deception.

* * *

Chapter Four:

_Not One To Break Promises_

"I'm sorry, this is a _restricted_ area. Students are not permitted."

The boy's eyes widen and he takes a step back, properly frightened; he takes far too long to formulate a response. "I'm sorry—I'm not a—well I _am_ a—um—"

Norman Osborn is not normally a patient man—in particular when it concerns insignificant matters. The boy is dressed sharply in a half-decent suit and tie—not normally the choice attire one would expect of a student—but he clearly does not belong and the last thing Norman needs to deal with is some prepubescent punk sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. Certainly not after—

"Sorry, Ozzy. This one belongs to me."

Norman glances over his shoulder to see Stark has joined him in the lobby. His eyes narrow upon sighting her disarming grin; he is immediately suspicious. He grimaces. "Please tell me this is a legal arrangement or else I _really_ don't think I want to know, Stark."

Stark snorts, sweeping past him and dropping an arm around the flustered boy's shoulders, expertly maneuvering him out of Norman's line of sight. She sends him off in the direction of the elevators and turns critical eyes on Norman. "Nothing like _that_, Osborn," Stark clicks her tongue in disapproval. "I don't want to know why that's the first thing that popped to mind."

Not to be provoked, Norman summons his best smile. "It's only that I'm well acquainted with your extracurricular … _exploits."_

Stark's grin broadens, her eyes wide and playful. "Haven't you heard? I'm a changed woman, now! Very legit! I'm practically a _lady."_

"Oh?" Norman arches a brow, not especially interested. He matches her step as he walks them away from his office. Up ahead he catches a glimpse of Stark's boy disappearing behind the sliding reflective doors of the elevator. "Have you finally found that special someone to tame your wild heart?"

For a flicker of a moment, Stark's expression darkens. Her lips tighten over her smile as she replies, "No. Never _that_."

Norman is intrigued—but only in the sense that he thinks he might actually have found some leverage over the damnable Stark. He doesn't join her in the elevator and bids her good-bye, thanking her for taking the time to meet with him despite the abruptness of the arrangement. When she's gone, he tracks the floors on the panel over the elevator until the lift arrives at the lobby and then turns away abruptly to return to his office.

But he doesn't return to his office, instead walking past his door to his private elevator, located on the opposite end of the lobby. Inside, there are only two buttons—one marked B6 and another F135. He punches the button for the basement level and stands in silence as he descends.

* * *

Outside of the OsCorp Tower, Natasha exhales a breath in a heavy whoosh and fishes out her phone from her suit jacket the instant she feels it buzz. "Hey," she answers without checking the caller ID.

"_Where are you?"_

Natasha snorts, allowing annoyance to color her words. "OsCorp. Getting blown off by the Great and Powerful himself."

"_I don't—oh. Oz. Osborn."_ Natasha smiles as she listens to Loki work out her references and waves when she spots Parker standing next to Happy by the car.

"Guy's a piece of work," Natasha goes on. "He acts all holier-than-thou. What a tool. Like _I_ don't have a company to run."

"_You don't. Pepper runs it for you."_

Natasha rolls her eyes—but she's still smiling. "Seriously, Loki? Who's side are you on?"

"_Mine_," he replies easily. "_Listen—I looked into Osborn. He is a highly guarded man."_

"Yeah, I _know._ To the point of paranoia. That's why I asked you to check up on him."

"_I'll admit I didn't really know what to look for—but I installed your … portable device—as you specified."_

"That's all you needed to do, gorgeous. Did you put it somewhere he wouldn't notice?"

"_I enchanted it."_

"Good enough. I think," She smiles mischievously, earning inquisitive looks from Happy and Parker. She murmurs so that only Loki will hear, "You're such a good little _spy_, Loki."

Loki does not respond to this, but she can feel his scowl through the phone. He says only, "_I'll see you when I return," _and promptly hangs up. His final words leave her frowning because she knows it means she's not likely to see him for a while.

She slips into the car, Parker right behind her, and apropos to nothing, Parker says, "He gives me the heebie-jeebies."

Happy shuts the door after them and moves around to the driver's side. Natasha cuts Parker a dubiously look, brow arched. "You barely _spoke_ to him."

Parker's expression belays his displeasure—it's almost a pout. "Long _enough."_

Natasha snorts. "That's probably true. There's something definitely off about that guy." She scowls at the thought—then sighs. "Fortunately, it's not my problem."

Parker turns to her sharply. "What do you mean?"

The car starts forward and Natasha watches Osborn's building roll past her view. Running a weary hand through her hair, she's careful to smooth it back down afterwards. "OsCorp is chemical research. Our fields don't often cross paths."

That wasn't to say that they didn't—but it was hard to be worried about the particulars of Osborn's personality when she was more concerned with deciphering what this presentation had been _really_ about. Osborn had wanted to make a point today, but she didn't know what that point was. Yet. Their meeting had been incredibly dull, revealing nothing that Natasha would have deemed important. It had been a show—or perhaps Osborn had been searching for something in _her._ She couldn't be sure. She only knew that she needed to figure out what he was _after_ if she wanted to be able to formulate a plan to _thwart_ it.

"I thought Mr. Osborn was supposedly near his deathbed?" Parker says suddenly, brow furrowed above the thick rims of his glasses.

Natasha sniffs, recalling the image of Osborn—all slicked hair and healthy pallor. "He _did_ look pretty spry for a dying man, didn't he?"

* * *

When the elevator doors open to the basement level, it is to a large chamber-like room that is as wide as it is long. A colonnade of cylindrical containers—large enough to fit a person—line the length of the room on either side. Down the center of the room, workstations are arranged in a row, each with two technicians quietly doubled over their work. Not a single one looks up as Norman walks past. The area is part lab, part storage—housing every little secret that could ever destroy him, were he to allow it to reach public eyes. Norman Osborn wants to pave the way to the future—he wants power and he wants _evolution_—but he is a smart enough man to understand that his methods would be rejected by popular opinion and in _this_ world, public opinion was _everything._

Before he can reach his office, Norman pauses before a particular lab station so that he can survey the work of the single technician and Norman's most sensitive formula. The technician's hand falters as he reaches for his notes—but he doesn't look up. Norman studies the weary face with an unsympathetic smile before speaking.

"_Well_, Doctor Connors? How are Stromm's notes treating you? Have you made any progress?"

Connors seems to physically recoil; fatigue and an inner torment have reduced the man to a shriveling husk of his former self. Connors wets his lips and his voice is soft, unassuming, "It's—It's very nearly complete. Sir."

"Good," Norman says, stepping forward to clamp a hand down on the man's shoulder—and _squeeze_. "That's very _good_."

As he walks away and Connors' returns to his work, Norman can't help but smile at the deliciousness that is the power he wields over an intellect such as Connors.

At the end of the room is another lift. It takes him up the short way to an observation room. This is his private office—his haven away from the rest of the world and away from trivial concerns—such as Natasha _Stark._

There is a message waiting for him when he reaches his desk. As he takes a seat behind the large, expensive desk, he puts his phone on speaker to play the message as he starts his computer. It is a distorted voice that speaks into the room.

"_Mr. Osborn, I do hope you enjoyed my little display. I'm sure once he's had some rest, Mr. Octavius will prove to be a very _resourceful_ companion. Consider him my gift to you. You'll also find that my payment for your—ah—_contribution_ will have arrived in the account you specified. Let me know when you have spoken to our mutual lady-friend. I am very eager to hear what she has to say."_

Norman snorts, rolling his eyes as he deletes the message and turning to his computer to verify that the money _had_ been received.

When he checks his inbox, he has an encrypted email that reads only:

**Monday's footage. Was NOT easy to come by. Please appreciate.**

He transfers a fraction of the funds he has just received to the sender of the message as the file downloads to an external hard drive. The transaction takes about as long to complete as the download (which is to say: not long at all, as it appeared that the recipient of the funds had been eagerly awaiting his response and thus accepted the request for the money transfer immediately.) The footage, as it turns out, happens to be of the now infamous Otto Octavius (or: Doctor Octopus, as the media had dubbed him). Iron Woman and Captain America can be seen diving in and out of his flailing tentacles and Norman studies the movements of the American legend in particular, analyzing carefully.

And then _Spiderman_ swings into the screen.

Completely without his realization, Norman finds himself sinking further into his chair and his mind narrowing upon the youngest hero with the utmost curiosity and concentration. There is something strangely … _fascinating _about the way Spiderman moves—flawlessly and naturally as if he were something _beyond_ human. It isn't like the militaristic precision of Captain America, or the engineered explosiveness of Iron Woman.

It is ... _perfection._

* * *

Natasha strips off her tie the moment she enters her workshop, shrugging out of her jacket and undoing the top three buttons of her dress shirt. She all but jogs between the workstations to her personal lab area—has never trusted her specimens beyond the walls of her workshop on account of just how incredibly sensitive they were (and potentially damaging to a great number of people). It's not uncommon for her to step into the proverbial lab coat, but it had certainly been a while—most of her time seems to be spent working with engines and transistors.

It takes her about a half hour to get everything set up. She takes the smallest fiber from a sample tucked safely in its petri dish and it takes her the rest of the hour for her computer to completely analyze the fiber and begin running the results through the databanks for a match. She sits back to in her chair, legs propped unceremoniously on the desk, arms crossed—

And that's when she notices Loki making his way towards her, the faintest scowl of aggravation twisting his lips and pinching his brow.

"You're … here," she observes needlessly, surprised.

Loki frowns but his scowl dissolves in his confusion—he pauses, canting his head. "I … am. Why are you surprised?"

Natasha blinks. "I assumed …" She stops herself because she doesn't want it to seem like she cares. Obviously, she's curious as _fuck_ where he goes when he's not in the Tower (because she's not so much an idiot to assume he spends the rest of the time spying on wannabe heroes for her). She shakes her head and sits up, feet dropping to the floor as she waves him over impatiently. "I don't know. Forget it. Get over here. Have a look at this."

"What is it?" he asks as he dutifully crosses the room to stand at her side.

She shifts to make room for him then taps a command on the tablet next to her microscope. The holo–interface comes to life, displaying the careful arrangement of molecules making up the single fiber sample. "When we were fighting Octo-guy, I picked up a sample of the webbing Spiderman was using."

Because he's not an idiot, Loki says immediately, "You want to learn his true identity."

She rewards him with a winning smile, bumping her shoulder against his arm. "_Obviously_. Knowledge over your enemies is always an advantage."

Loki regards the molecule arrangement for a second before looking down at her, single brow arched humorously. "Spiderman is an enemy?"

She looks back to the holo-interface and frowns. "Not yet—but he could be. One day. And if not—"

She cuts herself off and Loki keeps his silence. Neither of them say it, but Loki must know what her true intentions are. Allies or no, Natasha has learned to be less generous with her trust. A part of it is a need to feel like she has power over others so that she can assure herself that they can't as easily betray her. It's a dark side of her and if she dwells on it too long, she begins to feel dirty. But it's also necessary and she's quite finished putting her faith in others only for them to use it against her and the people she's sworn to protect.

"He's not the only one, is he?" Loki asks after a moment—speculative.

Natasha hums thoughtfully and swipes a hand through the holo, bringing up the previous window. She plucks at select files as if they were tangible and they pop out of the window to take shape directly in front of the main window. There are a number of different files, but three are flagged red and larger than the others. Loki's eyes narrow as he surveys them and she says, "I've got blood samples from Rogers and hair samples from Bruce. Even got a tissue sample from your brother."

Quietly, he asks, "... And _how _did you manage _that_?"

"On the carrier," she says, not bothering to elaborate; she remembers her _Point Break_ remark to the older God and the light slap to his arm and smirks. She watches Loki out of the corner of her eye, scrutinizing his neutral expression.

When he draws away from the files to look at her, she does the same—masking her thoughts in the same way he has and waiting to see what he makes of what she's shown him. His words are simple, though his tone conveys something—_more. _"You don't trust me. Why are you telling me this?"

She doesn't blink, saying slowly, "You're right. I don't."

"I could use this information to—" Loki stops himself immediately, looking between her and the files then back to her again. His tone and expression go colder and he straightens his back—away from her. "You've already taken samples of my DNA."

She turns back to the holo and ducks her hand behind Rogers' file to the main window and plucks at another file—Loki's profile and scans pop up and Loki stares at them, expression hard. The files is considerably denser than any of the others and this does not escape Loki's notice. Natasha says, "I've had it for a long time. You were the easiest to get it from—considering we _live_ together."

Softly, carefully, he murmurs without looking away from the file: "Is this a threat?"

She thinks about that—thinks that there might come a time when she'll be pitted against him again (it's almost a certainty, isn't it?). But not now. Not today.

"Not yet," she says easily enough, meeting his eyes when he looks at her. "I'm just reminding you that there is still a lot you don't know about me."

He snorts and summons his chair from across the room with a wave of his hand; it materializes beside her and he takes a seat—all this in one ridiculously graceful movement. She stares and he says, "So—_Spiderman_."

She has to shake herself to get back into her previous mindset. She gets rid of all the unnecessary clutter on the holo by waving her hand through the interface—the other profiles shrink back into their folders as if suctioned, so that only Spiderman's data remains. "Right. Well, the fiber is manufactured—so Spiderman's not actually flinging webs from his wrist. My guess is that he's human, not mutant—I haven't met many mutants who'd use their powers openly and still wear a mask."

"Have you met many mutants?"

"Met Charles Xavier once, but that was prior to my Iron Woman days—" She smiles despite the mortification she'd felt when she'd realized Xavier had the ability to read minds. If she thinks about it, there's not much of a difference between the kind of person she was then and the kind she was now—still wonderfully obscene at the worst of times. Still—there was something distinctly shameful about her past and the thought of anyone seeing into the mind of _that_ Natasha Stark was just ... embarrassing. Her smile doesn't falter as she elaborates, "Let's just say ... he did not approve of me."

"Few do," Loki replies simply. She glances at him for some sign that he's just trying to get a rise from her, but there's none. She blinks, then shrugs: he had a point.

"Spiderman is using _someone's_ technology," she says, moving back on topic. "It shouldn't take me long to find out where this 'webbing' came from—it's military grade so that narrows it down significantly."

Loki hums thoughtfully in acknowledgement, then asks, "Where's Morgan?"

Natasha cuts him a curious look. "… _Why?"_

"You told me to look into Osborn but Pepper wants me to remain at your side whilst Morgan is here."

Natasha's face scrunches in distaste; she is not a child to be watched. She stands, untucking her shirt and smoothing it down where it has crinkled along her waist. "Osborn is more important. Morgan's probably out gambling and I need to finish some stuff up while the computer works."

When she looks up, Loki nods and then he's gone.

* * *

He doesn't call Natasha for a ride when he arrives in LaGuardia, instead finding a cab through his own means and his own fare so that he can have time to gather his thoughts on the ride to Stark Tower.

Only, he doesn't want to think at all.

It's like when you know something, and that something is so terrible or dark or just terrifying—and you _know_ it, but you don't _want_ to know it, so you spend all your time avoiding it even while you're _thinking_ about it. You dodge around it like it's a viper, slinking behind whatever barriers you can find and hope that it does not spot you. But you cannot escape your own knowledge—you cannot escape your mind. And still, we try—we try to pretend that everything is alright and that our very world isn't one breath away from crumbling because it is human nature to recoil from pain. It's simply the way we are programmed—we fear because we know pain.

There _is_ no fear before pain.

So Bruce sits in the musty backseat of a New York City cab, cradling his duffel to his chest, thinking but not thinking about the terrible thing that he knows. The duffel he carries is a comfort in that it is still capable of containing all that he is (what's left of him)—one medium-sized athletic bag he'd picked up while on the run from General Ross; back during that short time when he wasn't alone and he could wake up and look upon the face of the woman he loved. He feared the day it would take more than a duffel to contain his life and so a part of him fears the camaraderie he has found in Natasha Stark.

After all, he is a time bomb.

There would come a day when his mind would not be his own, when his body would belong to someone else, and _He_ would take his place and Bruce Banner would be no more.

He was a time bomb and he knew what it was like to lose someone you cared for—someone you _loved_. And it was the worst feeling in the world—a sharper, more _profound_ heartbreak.

It was a tear in your _soul_.

"Mister? _Mister_? We are here."

Bruce feels snapped like a rubber band—returning to the world with such force that he feels disoriented and it takes him a minute to gather himself. He pays the cabbie and slips out of the backseat and onto the sidewalk, hand curling protectively over the straps of his duffel. He takes a moment to look up at the monolith of Natasha's life work and thinks about how _different_ they are. He thinks about the fact that he's a time bomb and that if he could, he'd hide himself away somewhere and let himself wither and die. He thinks about when he's gone and what that will mean to Betty—how little it will mean to anyone else. Thinks that—_maybe_ it's too much to ask of Natasha—too selfish—but if anyone can understand him _even a little_ it would be her. And even if she will never know what it's like to be a monster—even if she doesn't _truly_ understand—she is the only one that can help him and the only one he might trust.

"I'm sorry," Bruce murmurs—and it's lost to the din of the city. _I'm sorry_, he thinks—because he's selfish. He's going to be selfish and if it fails, he's going to hurt the only other person to ever look at him and value _Bruce_ beyond the Monster.

And with this apology, Bruce enters Stark Tower.

He doesn't check the penthouse—knows that at this time of day Natasha is most likely to be in her workshop. He stops by the guest room to change out of his week-old clothes and scrub the grime from his arms and face. He won't look into his reflection—keeps his head bowed until he's satisfied with the state of himself then leaves the room in search of Natasha.

As predicted, Natasha is in the basement level, tinkering with the circular socket piece of one of her chest pieces. There's a suitcase next to her chair, angled so that he can see what look like sections of the Iron Woman armor. She's sitting comfortably behind a desk, legs propped up; on the desk, the holo-interface is running through a series of computations that go too quickly for him to read. As Bruce approaches, his steps are careful and unobtrusive—and then, like a fading thought, he slows to a stop and stares—feels another second of doubt.

He was never a perfect man, even before the accident—even before The Other Guy. He was selfish, even then. He's human, after all. It's _allowed_—right?

But … this.

Was this too much to ask?

Where was the line? At what point was it a cruelty to turn to others for help?

Natasha's life wasn't easy—despite public opinion and what she herself would have others believe. She took on the problems of others to avoid her own.

He watches her work but she seems lost in thought, her hands moving out of habit while her eyes stare blankly at the socket, unseeing.

Idly, Natasha's eyes flick in his direction, then back to her work—it takes her a moment, and then she sits forward with a start, nearly dropping the socket.

"Oh, _jeez_—Bruce! What are you—" She takes a breath, setting the socket on the desk and standing to meet him. She looks a little rattled and he wonders what thoughts he's interrupted. "What are you doing standing around like a creeper? I didn't know you were back. Why didn't you call me?"

Bruce can't find the energy to lie or beat around the bush. He says, "I need your help," and then it's done. It's out there and he can't take it back.

**_Help? Help?_**

**_Helping you. Man dies._**

Bruce grits his teeth and takes a steadying breath—_not here. You don't have power here. Go back to sleep. Go._

A deep rumbling laughter is his response.

Natasha is frowning, concerned. She takes a step closer, all seriousness now. "Bruce?"

Natasha Stark: genius, wealthy and the creator of the Iron Woman. Bruce had been the man with the plan and Natasha had been the future—_was_ the future. If anyone could help him, it was her.

"Is this about—?" Natasha cuts herself off, perceptive as always. "This is about what you wanted to talk to me before? It's—about the _Hulk_, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Natasha nods grimly—looks about herself then frowns back at him. "Here or … ?"

Bruce shakes his head impatiently, "Wherever is—" He sighs, wiping a hand down his face. "Natasha, it's _Him._ He's—I've been having these … _dreams._ Nightmares—and it's always—it's _Him_."

Natasha offers him the chair beside the one she had been occupying and when he takes it, she remains standing—something like panic in her eyes. "Have you always had nightmares?"

Bruce shakes his head, "Sometimes, yes—but not like this. This is—it _feels_ real. Like He's coming alive inside of me. Half the time—" He cuts himself off. It isn't important. He's not here to complain. He's here for _help._ "I need you to help me get rid of Him. I need you to help me find a cure."

Natasha's eyes widen—and now it's a different kind of anxiety in her eyes. "Bruce, _no—_I don't _know_. I don't think this is a good idea. A cure is—You've _learned_ how to control him—you just need to learn how to—"

"I _can't_," Bruce snaps, sleep deprivation shortening his temper. Natasha doesn't seem to take offense; she relaxes her stance and listens. Bruce leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I thought I could, but I _can't._ I'm losing control and—Natasha, I'm just a _failure_—"

She counters immediately, shaking her head, "_No_, Bruce—"

"Oh, _come on!" _He shouts, allowing his exasperation to show fully. "I _failed_ to recreate a procedure that was invented _seventy years_ ago, Natasha! Every time you fly around in the Iron Woman suit—every time people see that little _circle of light_ over your heart—it _proves_ just how brilliant you are! _You_ save lives. Me? Me—every time I lose my temper, the failed Super Soldier stack in my cell structure activates and people _die_."

Natasha shakes her head, hands fisted at her sides. "That isn't true. How long have you gone without incident? You were completely in control during New York. I _believe_ in you, Bruce. You just have to believe in yourself, as well."

"Well that's nice," Bruce sneers, rolling his eyes and slumping back against the chair. "But those are just _words_. I need help, Natasha. _Your_ help."

Natasha hesitates, studying his eyes as if gauging his conviction on this matter. At last, she sighs, stepping around him to reclaim her seat. He follows her movement, rotating his chair to keep her in sight. She doesn't look at him, her body angled in the direction the chair had been facing—towards her desk. She stares at the holo and murmurs: " … What do you want me to do?"

Bruce rolls his chair closer, dropping a hand on her armrest and watching her profile. "Your work with nanotechnology is ... _unparalleled_. The Super Soldier stack in me sends signals to my cellular structure, converting them into—_Hulk_ cells. I was thinking—if we could _float_ the devices in my blood—they could tell the Hulk cells to turn _off_."

"That's—" Natasha's expression contorts, skeptical, and she cants her head to look at him. "_Bruce_, it would take too _long. _My work with nanotechnology is completely experimental. I haven't even gotten to a stage where—"

"You're _Natasha Stark_." He regrets it the moment the thought enters his mind but his mouth speaks it anyway. "If anyone can do it, it's you."

And it won't be her pride or even a sense of guilt that will force her to accept: it is Natasha's sense of duty to all who enter her life. As if, by virtue of knowing her, Natasha is singlehandedly responsible for their safety.

Bruce knows this—and he thinks he'll hate himself for a thousand lifetimes for abusing this aspect of her personality—because if they _fail_ …

If Bruce _cannot_ be saved …

Natasha would never forgive herself.

He can see her resolve wane as his words take root. She bites her lip, avoiding his gaze with a grimace. "That's … _flattering_, but—"

Because she cannot look at him, Bruce does not bother concealing the remorse from his expression. He takes a breath, and says: "Natasha—I just want my life back. It will never be normal—but I just want my _life."_

And she will understand because Natasha _would_ understand this best of all.

She will understand because she _thinks_ she understands.

Even if she will never _know._

**_Banner—weak, weak little Banner._**

**_Hulk is strong._**

**_Hulk is _****strongest****_._**

* * *

Natasha has forgotten all about Spiderman and his secret identity by the time she returns to the penthouse, exhausted. Several vials of blood, saliva swabs and hair samples later, Bruce had been all but ready to pass out. He'd excused himself and taken to his room, leaving Natasha to return to the penthouse alone and severely disturbed. She finds that her mind is difficult to sort—conflicting thoughts and emotions struggling for dominance. The moment she enters the penthouse she stops, standing in front of the lift—as if, with the weight of her thoughts, her body had been rendered motionless.

She's worried about Bruce—but she's also worried for the Hulk. She's concerned about the nightmares and what that might mean in terms of her friend's mental stability. Of course, a part of her is thrilled at the prospect of delving into this particular assignment—but it's never been the life of a _friend_ she's had in her hands, always her own or soldiers who'd made the choice between duty and personal safety. It was different than building a suit of armor for Rhodey—this was about Bruce and what was _inside_ of him. Structurally, chemically, _physically_—did she trust herself enough to succeed?

Did she _want_ to succeed?

There was a part of her that would mourn the loss of the Hulk—and not purely for scientific purposes.

The elevator opens behind her and she doesn't notice.

"What on earth are you doing, Natasha?"

She turns sharply to see her cousin behind her—slick, oily hair and perfect suit. "Oh. Morgan."

He sneers, arching a brow dramatically as he shoves past her. "Are you touched in the head? Why are you just standing around like a dolt?"

Natasha rolls her eyes. "I was _thinking_. Try it sometime. You might surprise yourself with something original."

Morgan affects a mock laugh and a sneer. He frowns when she steps backwards into the lift and asks, "Where are you going?"

"Out," she replies with a smile. The sudden urge to just be _somewhere_ _else_ was powerful and she needed time to sort out her feelings about Bruce's request before she delved any further.

She isn't surprised when Morgan darts back to the elevator and stops the doors from shutting with a slam of his hand. "Where?"

She snorts—but she still hasn't designated a floor for the elevator. She crosses her arms and says, "Why?"

Morgan glares, clearly unimpressed.

She rolls her eyes and leans forward to tap a floor on the touch-sensitive control panel. "You can come. _Relax._"

"How _charitable_," Morgan grumbles as he steps inside and lets the doors slide shut behind him. Smoothly, the elevator begins its descent.

Natasha flicks him a look then pulls out her phone to check the calendar. Morgan's irritable mood could be attributed to a day spent at the casinos, but also … the _date._ For a little shit, Morgan was spectacularly sentimental.

"Guess where we're going?" she asks with excitement.

Sometimes it can feel like they're children again—bickering and scheming against one another most of the time; sharing childhood memories the next. She understands Pepper's apprehension, but Morgan is one of the few remaining pieces of her childhood—and the only semblance of normalcy she'd had. They couldn't stand each other most of the time, even back then—but wasn't that just the way with siblings?

"Neverland?" Morgan asks peevishly because he _is_, once again, a _shit._

Natasha rolls her eyes and the elevator comes to a halt. She walks ahead and leads them into her garage—makes a B-line for the Jag and calls over her shoulder to Morgan, "Not today, Mr. Smee. I _should_ warn you, however, that some manual labor may be involved."

Morgan groans behind her as she slips behind the driver's seat. He rounds the Jag and slides into the passenger's side. "You're not funny."

"_I_ think I am."

"Tick tock."

"_Ooh!_" Natasha laughs as she starts the Jag and peels out of the garage. "You _do_ have a sense of humor!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Morgan biting back a smile.

One of the few things they have in common is their taste in music (though Morgan would like to pretend he prefers something a little more _posh_). They jam out in the car, Natasha belting out lyrics loudly while Morgan makes faces and pretends not to enjoy himself; traitorously, his foot taps in rhythm to the beat. She knows when Morgan has recognized the path to their destination even before she pulls up in front of 890 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. When they step out of the car, Morgan stands beside her, staring up at the view in wonder.

"The Manor?" he asks, bemused.

"Under renovation," she says, spotting the moving truck a little ways down the road. There are two workers stomping carelessly across the yard, arms loaded with large boxes they carry into the back of their truck.

"Are you planning to move back in?" Morgan asks as she leads them around to the side of manor. There's a hint of derision in Morgan's words, and he adds, "You don't have _enough_ homes?"

"Calm down," Natasha snorts, her grin unseen by Morgan. "I just figured it'd be nice if our last family heirloom wasn't left to wither and crumble."

_Plus_, Morgan would have somewhere to stay that wasn't the Tower.

That wasn't what had prompted her to renovate Stark Manor, but it was an added bonus. The Manor had always been more of a home to Morgan than to her. To Natasha, it had always been an obnoxiously large reminder of her parents.

Stark Manor is roughly the size of a city block; the main house is large and nearly the width of the entire estate. There are two guest houses, both easily twice the size of the finest home you could find in Manhattan. The land had been well cared for all this time, its exterior pristine, groomed and a perfect reflection of what it had looked like three decades ago. In all this time, however, it had remained untouched, but for the exterior. Even when she'd begun the renovations, it wasn't until today that Natasha had paid her old home a visit. As they walked along the path winding around the Manor, she watches their reflections against the six-foot windows—and for a moment, she sees herself and Morgan as children again, short and gangly with too much spirit and too bright minds.

Even though her childhood memories are anything but fond, she can't help but smile when she thinks back on Morgan and herself and their silly battles.

As always, the anticipation of Morgan's arrival is always much more stressful than his actual company; Natasha feels more relaxed than she has in a long while and realizes that a part of her … _welcomes_ Morgan. It's a curious thing—you can hate your family with every fiber of your being, but at the end of the day, they're family and sometimes—sometimes only _family_ could fill the void in a way nothing else could. There's something refreshing about being in the company of someone you didn't have to impress. Morgan's approval was the furthest thing from her mind and no one was quite fit to handle her verbal abuse like family. Clearly, their particular brand of banter was a Stark trait. (And, occasionally, an Asgardian one.)

"What are they doing?" Morgan asks when they reach the guest house and sees the lawn is littered with various sets of furniture, metal crates and cardboard boxes.

"I've mostly been using the Manor as storage. I'm just getting rid of a few things—selling some of my parents' stuff to a few different galleries then donating the proceeds to the Foundation." Natasha shrugs, finding that she feels absolutely nothing as she watches the workers carry away what few mementos had been left by her parents. She feels like there _should _be something, but all that there is—is an anticipation of … _something_—and then there is nothing. Like a falloff of emotion where she realizes that all those expensive paintings and her father's collections meant absolutely _nothing_ to her.

"You're joking," Morgan deadpans, expression slack.

Natasha blinks at him. "I'm not."

Morgan scowls—looks absolutely _furious_ for a split second—then exhales loudly in exasperation. "_Natasha—_you _can't_ just give away their stuff! It's our _inheritance!"_

"_Mine_," Natasha corrects him—perhaps a little unkindly, she thinks, when she sees his wince. "They were my parents. I can do what I want with their things. I'm not using it, _they_ don't need it; this way, at least something good comes of it."

Morgan bristles silently and watches the men load their truck. Natasha watches him, discreetly, and wonders if it's cruel of her to bring him here knowing full well his affection for her old home. Stark Manor had been a reprieve for Morgan—his haven away from the delegations of his overbearing father, his manic-depressive mother and his father's many mistresses. The Manor had been an actual _home_ for Morgan, even if Natasha couldn't understand what it was about the cold stone and her own broken little family that had captured his affections.

For a moment, she considers offering him the Manor—but the moment is fleeting. Morgan is too far gone in his vices. All nostalgia aside, she doesn't doubt he'd dismantle the Manor himself to pay off his many debts.

"Okay!" she exclaims with a clap as soon as the lawn is cleared and the workers retreat to their truck to deliver the assortment of cargo to its respective galleries. "They'll be back in a few hours. Gives us enough time …" She trails off as she marches into the guest house.

Morgan follows after her, grunting, "What are you on about?"

"I need your help sorting through my dad's stuff."

"_Why?"_

Inside, the guest house has been stripped bare of any personality. The wallpaper has been ripped away, revealing solid concrete; the wooden floors are rough and unpolished, almost splintering underfoot. The entrance brings them to a parlor that branches off in six directions. There are two entryways to the left and right of the parlor—the left leading to a kitchen and dining area, the right leading to a sitting room. There is a grand staircase directly across from the front entrance—on either side of which is an entrance to long halls leading deeper into the house. On the second floor, there are two doors on opposite ends—these lead to bedrooms, though they are presently as bare as the rest of the house.

She leads them into the dining room, then the door that leads them into the basement level. She points at a nook of the basement that is mostly just a wall of packing boxes. "Just—look for anything my dad labeled 'Steve'."

"Who's _Steve?"_ Morgan grumbles and doesn't move towards the boxes.

The basement is illuminated by a solitary light dangling from the ceiling that doesn't do much to ward off the shadows. It's difficult to make out how much more stuff she'd stuffed into the odd corner but she presumes Rogers' won't be too bothered if it takes her a while to sort through all her father's things.

"A friend of Howard's," Natasha answers, making her way to the boxes. "I'm sorting out his stuff and selling the rest. Or storing it. Or taking it. Depends on what I find." She glances over her shoulder to cut Morgan a serious look. "If it's labeled 'Steve', don't go poking your nose into it. I'll hear it if anything goes missing. The old man is a pain in the ass."

Mostly, she doesn't trust that Morgan won't try to make a profit off of Rogers' things if he finds out it belongs to _the_ Captain America.

Morgan doesn't really help. She hadn't expected him too but she's still annoyed whenever she looks up to find him fiddling with one of Howard's gadgets instead of helping. It's fortunate that Howard had been very particular about ensuring all of Rogers' things had been kept together because it doesn't take her as long as she'd feared to set his things aside. On more than one occasion, Natasha stumbles across something that is so very _Howard_ it's almost as if he's _there_ with her.

There is an old radio collecting dust on a shelf and for a flicker of a moment, she thinks she sees Howard's back as he bends over the radio to tinker with its wiring. It's such a profoundly clear image that she has to blink to convince herself he's not really there—and he's gone, but he's like an afterimage burned into the backs of her eyes and every time she blinks she thinks she sees his shadowy silhouette around the room.

It's a combination of Morgan and her childhood home that has her mind playing tricks on her—seeing Howard where he isn't; catching a glimpse of Jarvis bustling through the mess she and Morgan have made of the basement. It's distressing for multiple reasons.

Out loud, she grumbles, "I keep thinking I see my dad. All this stuff—I haven't ..." She huffs, glowering at everything she sets her eyes on. Not a thing of it belongs to her—all Howard and Rogers' shared memories, tucked away in a corner of her childhood.

"The same thing happened to me when I was putting together my mother's things after—" Morgan seems to have surprised himself by speaking, but he continues, pointedly focusing his gaze on whatever is in his hands. "—after she left."

Natasha is surprised. "Uncle Ed had you do that? That seems … _terrible._ You were just a _kid."_

"He couldn't do it himself," Morgan shrugs, setting down the object in his hands; she sees that it is a snow globe with a replica of Howard's Stark Expo. "But he also didn't want the maids touching her things. It just wasn't right, you know? Even if—she _left—_no one deserved to be touching her things. She was still—"

Morgan doesn't finish.

Natasha had never visited much with her aunt and uncle; it was always Morgan coming to visit _her._ She knew that her uncle had been an incredibly demanding man, but she'd always pitied Morgan for his mother. On her best days, she could be a very lovely woman—elegant and charming and loveable. Too quickly, however, she'd succumbed to an illness that would intermittently consume that gentle side and twist her aunt Julia into something horrid, bitter and full of hate. The good days almost made up for the bad, but the bad days ...

Those stuck with Morgan.

She thinks again about the date and Morgan's mood and frowns.

She doesn't know what to say to him and regrets bringing up thoughts of his mother. Giving the room one final inspection, she says, "Well, I think that's the last of it."

"Is that why you're renovating the Manor? For your mother?" Morgan asks, quietly.

Natasha can't look at him, but this time the insecurities are her own. "No. I have plenty of memories with her. It's not because of that."

Morgan hums. "She _was_ something."

Natasha snorts because—that was an _understatement._ Shaking her head, she waves her hand at him impatiently and forces a smile. "Come on, come one! Let's go. Why are we reminiscing on the past when we both know it was _shit."_

Morgan grins—tutting, "_Language_, Natasha. And—do we have time for a drink?"

"After." She nods over to the stack of her father's boxes. "Help me carry this stuff out, first."

"Don't you have people to do that for you?" Morgan grouses, annoyed.

Natasha doesn't look at him and hefts the first box into her arms. "Yeah."

Morgan is silent for a moment—thoughtful.

Then,

"Oh."

* * *

"So—I need a _favor_."

_"What is it?"_

"Uh—hold on—"

There's a soft exhale—not quite annoyance. "_Happy …"_

Happy grimaces, ducking out of the bedroom, though he can hear the shower running in the adjoining bathroom. "Sorry, sorry—I just don't want Pepper to overhear."

On the other line, Loki is silent for a moment and Happy can feel him thinking. " … What_ favor?"_

Happy's eyes dart to his bedroom door. "Well, I can't tell you over the phone—I'm … it's—I'll tell you in person. Can you meet me tomorrow?"

_"Not tomorrow. I'll be gone for a few days. Is it urgent?"_

"Ah—" Happy tries not to sulk but he can't help his disappointment. "It's not. It can wait. I'm just a little impatient—and nervous. I really could use your help, bud."

He hears an amused chuckle on the other line. "_Alright."_ There's a pause, and Happy thinks he should hang up—but then Loki says, "_Ah—Happy. If you don't mind—"_

"I won't mention to Pep that Ms. Stark's got you out runnin' errands. It's okay. I know she asked you to look after the boss." Happy says with a smile—finds himself thinking, idly, how much easier it is to smile now that he has someone to smile _for._ He'd never thought much of Natasha's ironic moniker—but now it finally seemed to fit him.

_"She did."_ Loki says.

Happy's smile widens. "I'll try an' keep an eye on her for the both of you."

Loki's quite hum is his only response before the call is ended. Almost immediately, the bedroom door opens and Pepper steps out, towel wrapped modestly around herself and red hair wet and darkened to an auburn color.

She smiles when she sees him and nods to the phone in his hand as she walks past him and towards the kitchen. "Who were you talking to?"

"Loki," Happy replies immediately, pocketing his phone and trailing after her. He pauses by the archway to admire the slope of her freckled shoulders as she peers into the cupboard next to the mounted microwave and plucks out a teabag.

Pepper's nose is crinkled adorably when she turns to grab the kettle from the stove to fill it with water. "Ugh—and what's your boyfriend scheming _today?"_

"Nothing," Happy chirps, his cheery amusement masking his momentary panic. He would never lie to Pepper, no matter _who_ asked it of him, but he had promised not to say anything and that meant steering the conversation away from the topic of Loki. _Still_, he feels he ought to defend the man when he's not here to do it himself so he says, "I don't know why insist that he's up to something. You were head-over-heals for him when you thought he was a human named Lucas. He hasn't really changed much—except _now_ we know he's a God."

Pepper's eyes narrow on his smile and she frowns. "I—" And then Pepper does the unimaginable: she _pouts._ "Okay—I _like_ him. But I can't just let him off the hook that easy. He hurt Natasha and he lied to _us. _Also, there's the matter of him trying to take over the world."

"True," Happy nods. "_But_—I also think he's trying to be better."

"He hasn't killed anyone, at least, " Pepper agrees, turning to her kettle and setting the water to boil.

"Besides," Happy continues, walking into the kitchen and stepping beside her. He drops an arm around her shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss to the constellation of freckles on her shoulder. He can see from her profile that she's biting back a smile and grins. "I never get to be friends with the guys the boss likes."

Pepper arches a brow, her lips pursed into a smile of amusement that make the apples of her cheeks swell attractively. She cuts him a sidelong glance and says, "_That's_ because Natasha never brings back the ones she likes."

"Until Loki," Happy counters.

Pepper sniffs, shaking her head.

After a moment, she murmurs, "Until Loki."

* * *

His things arrive only days after his visit with Stark, but with nothing to do, it had felt like _years._ He doesn't immediately open the boxes—declines the movers' offers to help him bring the boxes up to his apartment and takes his time walking them up the two flights of stairs. There's four of them total, inscribed with his name on the side in Howard's familiar penmanship. Steve stares at the letters of his name and can't help but think of his old friend—

But he doesn't want to think about him.

Or the past.

Or _anything at all_.

He turns away from the boxes and returns to his sketchbook and graphite on the kitchen table. He has to squeeze his bulky frame into the chair—doesn't think about the fact that sometimes his body still feels completely foreign and is only ever truly his when it has a purpose—and then folds his upper half over the table and … _stares._

A white blank page stares up at him—unsympathetically.

'_You want to draw something?'_ it seems to ask. '_Good luck.'_

_Just try and focus_, he tells himself—as if willing would make it so. He tries to think of … something. _Anything_. But creativity is not so easily won and his mind is a traitorous thing—Natasha Stark is like a weed that has taken root and cannot be removed; every effort to do so leaves him only exhausted and frustrated.

He doesn't understand her—he doesn't understand anything. The world is different—the people all strangers. Natasha Stark is not the core of his problems—but she certainly epitomizes them well.

Steve Rogers remembers a unified country—remembers unified countries in pursuit of peace and the demolition of oppression. He remembers what a _real_ hero looks like—and it's _not_ the glorified brilliance of Natasha Stark's red-and-gold. Being a hero was being a soldier—serving your country and standing for what was right in the face of so much _wrong._

Being a hero wasn't heroic—it wasn't nice suits and expensive cars and flashy armor. It was self-sacrifice and duty and giving up _everything_ and expecting _nothing._ Heroes were the men and women putting themselves on the line for their countries. Stark _may_ be familiar with war—it runs in her blood, after all, to be interwoven in the future of the country. Stark may know _of_ war, but she has never seen a _world_ at war—countries of power crumbling and bleeding in their efforts to protect their own from the evil of a mad man who believed himself to be a beacon of hope and justice.

Steve understands that Stark is too young to know better—he's younger than her (despite the assumption that seventy years in ice somehow translated to seventy years of awareness). It's not like his time in the ice had truly aged him. He was still a kid from Brooklyn and all that he knew about the world he'd learned from the streets and the war. He didn't pretend to be any more than that and he _recognizes_ the generational gap between them—the wide margin of years and the evolution of the world throughout. There are seventy years between them and it isn't a matter of who is older and wiser because nothing is the _same _and everything is just _wrong._

It's not just Stark, Steve realizes. In the year he'd spent under Fury's watch he'd used his superfluous amount of free-time to observe. Since the disassembly of the Avengers, it was with new eyes that Steve looked upon the city that had been his home and it hit him then—more profoundly than before, as if he'd spent the year after his awakening in a state of denial and shock and only after averting yet another apocalypse did he _see:_ it wasn't just the architecture of the city that had changed, or the language or the sounds or the smells…

It was the _people._ The _country._

The world.

Steve had been wrong when he'd said Stark was nothing like her father. They were very _much_ the same in many ways—even if they were completely different people. The thing he'd come to learn about the Starks—with Howard first, and now his daughter—is that they were a reflection of their country. One had only to look at them to understand America.

Captain America was the ideal—but the Starks ...

The Starks were the _reality_.

Howard Stark had been an innovator—a futurist. He was optimistic, if a little reckless, and he was _bright_ and _courageous_ and he'd known who the _real_ heroes were. Steve had admired him because Howard had painted an idea of a future Steve would have liked to see. He represented the American drive to achieve and create and push boundaries that none had dared to approach. Howard was—_had been_—the American dream.

But Howard is gone, now, and in his place: Natasha Stark is the new reality—an America that Steve can't even _begin_ to comprehend. An America that is critical and sarcastic and full of self-loathing—relying on machines and glorifying their sins while collectively spitting on the government that exists to protect and to serve them. Never in his darkest thoughts could he have imagined this would be the path his country would take—never did he think he'd have to question _himself_ and his purpose in a country that didn't _want_ to be saved_._

Steve had looked to Howard and seen the future.

He looks at his daughter now and sees he was _wrong._

Humans are flawed and he sees now that the innocence of a dream is better left untouched because man will always corrupt. The waters of freedom are poisoned—this new world is _wrong._

This is a time he knows nothing about and there is no Howard to guide him. There is only Natasha Stark—

_Focus, _he demands, frowning at the sketchbook as if it were to blame for the direction his thoughts had turned. _Just focus—draw! Draw something! Just _do _it. _It always works. It _used_ to work. He used to do this so well he could pay the _bills_ with it. If only he could just stop thinking about _everything—_stop thinking about the fact that he has no friends and no one he can trust. Stop thinking about the fact that the city he once called his home is a _stranger_, now—the _irony_ that he shouldn't even _be _here. He _should _have died seventy years ago. They should have left him in that block of ice. Should have left him as a memory—a symbol of peace and freedom …

He'd write a book, if he could.

No.

He should _draw. _Like he used to, once upon a time, when drawing had made him _happy._

Why had he stopped?

Steve feels the pull in the back of his eyes. As if magnetized, he finds he is unable to stop his eyes dragging away from the sketchbook to the right where his name stares back at him, scrawled in his friend's script; the boxes loom like giants where he's left them, barricading the door. It's symbolic of something—but he doesn't want to think on symbolism.

With a weary sigh, Steve stands—but falters when he catches the analogue clock on the wall across the room. And then—he's walking towards the phone, instead; picks it up and punches long-memorized numbers into the pad.

He doesn't bring the phone to his ear and he doesn't hit CALL.

He listens to his heartbeat and glances back at the clock.

It's eight o'clock. On the dot.

* * *

Deep within its own dimension is buried a castle of a kind to rival the beauty of Asgard. It is built of a dark stone, with sharp spirals and darker windows. The castle seems to sprout from the mouth of nature—mountains and trees alike conform to its architecture as if by will of a God. An agonizingly long path is carved from the castle and seems to stretch out into eternity in the opposite direction, never deviating. The portal he creates opens to an undisclosed midpoint between the castle and eternity; the castle appears miniature in the distance but Loki walks, forgoing the convenience of magic for sake of diplomacy.

The path is shorter than it appears—a challenge to those who would seek to cheat it—but the walk still gives him time to reflect.

He is unsurprised when, upon reached the cobblestone of the castle's courtyard, he feels another's magic envelop him as his body is pulled through space.

He has not fully materialized when a woman's voice speaks, "My fondness for you, _false-King_, will likely diminish should you continue to test my patience. What is it that you seek now?"

When he looks about himself, he sees that he is alone. The voice in his mind resonates as loudly as if the speaker was present, but all that he can see in the orange-red glow of the enchanted lanterns is a wide, empty chamber—perhaps a bedroom—with thick, satiny drapes swooping across the walls.

Loki scoffs, "I would take offense—if I didn't already know your affections belonged to another."

The woman's tone is cold with distaste. "Your time with the mortals has softened that silver tongue—or is that, too, part of your ruse? How long do you plan to toy with the Midgardians."

"Until they have exhausted their usefulness," Loki replies honestly.

"How pitiful to see the great Trickster reduced to cohabiting with _vermin."_

Loki's expression flickers for a second, betraying his irritation—it's not as if he'd _asked _for _any_ of this! When the feeling is gone and he has calmed, he murmurs smoothly, "You know what I _want_, My Lady. Have you located _him?_"

"And _you_ know there is nothing I can do about _him_ without a price. That is beyond my powers, little Prince."

Loki curses silently—feeling a hot flash of rage—and then banishes it. He shouldn't be surprised—it was only by chance that he'd happened upon that meddling fool in the first place. "Very well," Loki says at last. "And did you locate the item I asked for?"

It is then that the Norn Queen appears, materializing in a whisper of magic. The Sorceress is beautiful—as Gods and Goddesses always are—her dark hair voluminous and pushed back by her golden crown so it tumbles over her shoulders and down her back in waves. Her fair complexion seems to glow in the red-tinged lighting, her lips a deep crimson to match the velvet gown draped over her long form; violet eyes glimmer with power and knowledge. Loki is completely unfazed.

Her expression is severe—unsmiling—and she says in a voice that seems to echo throughout the castle, "He who would defy the Devourer of Worlds—it is _he_ whom you will need. He shall guide you to your Weapon, Schemer."

Loki's eyes narrow as he considers her words. In his silence, she presses her thoughts to his—_showing_. He grins—but even his most charming smile seems ineffectual—Karnilla's affections are not so easily won. He bows his head, affecting graciousness, "Very good, Sorceress. Then—" He looks up and sees the corner of her eyes pinch tighter in annoyance. "I have only one last favor to ask of you. After this, your debt to me will be cleared."

"And my _reward_, Princeling. Do not think I have forgotten."

Loki's smile widens. "Yes, of course. You will have your reward," he agrees. "Just as soon as I have my _victory."_

* * *

**End Notes:** That shouldn't have taken as long as it did to write. I don't know what happened. I'm so sorry...

I do plan to delve into the Hulk and Bruce. This arc in particular is about the development of multiple characters, including Natasha and Loki. It's more action packed and explosive (and yes, there will be romance) so it's going to be wild all around. Most, if it isn't resolved here, will be resolved in the next arc.

About Steve, there's a bit where he's thinking about what America has become and all that. I just want to clarify that this is all in his perspective. This is a guy from the 40's who grew up thinking that the heroes are the soldiers who put on the uniform to fight and protect his country. Of course he can't relate to Natasha who is as cynical as most of us in terms of the government—treating it like its the enemy.

And Loki ...

Looks like Loki is keeping himself pretty busy, hmm?


	5. Let's Not Speak of Faith

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Friendships and relationships.

* * *

Chapter Five:

_Let's Not Speak of Faith, We'll Tell Only Lies_

Bruce sleeps deeply into the next day and wakes to find it is well past noon. The drugs Natasha had given him had knocked him completely out and he feels marginally better for having rested. He can't begin to imagine why Natasha would ever need such a strong dose of medication, especially considering that most of the time she still looks like she's spent the entire day working rather than sleeping. He'd linger on this longer if it weren't for the matter of his own life being enough of chaotic shit-fest and he didn't have the luxury of exerting what little energy wasn't spent restraining the Other Guy on Natasha. It's not without a guilty conscience that he pushes away the image of her tired eyes and hallowing cheeks in the hours before she expertly slaps on a thin mask of makeup.

He's beginning to wonder if he even remembers how to be a friend anymore …

The penthouse is empty when he ventures up there to find her. So is the workshop when he checks it next. Natasha is gone—and so is _Loki_ for that matter. Bruce spends a few minutes stewing in his irritation of the Trickster and Natasha's seemingly blind faith that he's not up to any trouble.

He calls Natasha next, expecting that she is most likely in her office.

Pepper answers, instead. "_Hey, Bruce. Good morning. What can I do for you?"_

Bruce fidgets with his free hand, clenching and unclenching it. It's not nerves or anything relating to Pepper or Natasha—it's that he can feel the presence of the Other Guy pushing against the walls of his mental defenses and he's searching to ground himself in reality. At last, when the Other Guy recedes into the background, Bruce grimaces a smile and says, "Hey, Pepper. I'm looking for Natasha. She's not busy, is she?"

"_Oh, no. She's wrapping up her meeting now with Miss—what?"_ A distant voice interrupts Pepper. He recognizes it as Natasha's and his smile widens as he listens to the two women speak. "_Yes, it's Bruce. Are you—_Natasha!_ You're in the middle of a_—"

In the background, Bruce hears another woman's quiet chuckle and can make out the words, "_ … alright. We're old colleagues. I'm used to this."_

_"That's no excuse, Ms. Hansen. Natasha, I'll be outside with the phone and you can talk to Bruce when you've finished."_ Bruce hears Natasha's protests that Pepper hand her the phone, but then there's the distinct slam of a door and Pepper is saying, "_Sorry. She'll be right with you."_

Bruce chuckles. "Sorry. I should have texted. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"_It's fine. How are you, by the way? You didn't look so good last time I saw you."_

"You're always so observant," Bruce replies, evasively.

"_Well, you and Natasha are a lot alike. You seem to enjoy suffering when you think no one is watching." _Bruce has no response and he expects that Pepper hadn't been expecting one. She goes on, "_Try to take care of yourself. She worries an awful lot about you, too. Sometimes it isn't enough to care for yourself—sometimes you need other people to do it for you."_

Bruce swallows—feels his heart begin to speed up with emotion and curls his free hand into a fist so he doesn't crush his phone.

He hears scuffling on the other end, then Pepper saying, "_Here she is. I'll talk to you later, Bruce."_

Bruce inhales sharply and cannot reply. His eyes are burning and he shuts them tight—feels a constricting in his lungs and it's been a long time since he's felt anything that wasn't tainted with the black rage of the Other Guy. He's not sure he remembers what he's feeling now.

"_Bruce! What's up? Did you have breakfast? I'm in the mood for some breakfast. Are you at the penthouse? I can pick something up on the way. Preferences?"_

"I—ah—" Bruce shakes his thoughts and focuses on her rapid-fire words. "Uh. Anything is fine, I guess. I haven't eaten."

_"Micky-D's it is! I would _kill_ for some McNuggets! Oh _man_, that Buffalo sauce is to _die_ for! I don't know how I have gone this long without ever trying their Buffalo sauce. I always get _ranch_, like a _tool!_"_ He can hear when she steps out onto the street because her voice is suddenly harder to register above the heavy noise of the city. "_I know that's not breakfast food. I'll get you a McMuffin. Or, like, _five_. They're small."_

"Two is fine," Bruce says with a smile. He realizes at once that he is still in the workshop and begins heading for the lift so that he can wait for her return in the penthouse.

_"Really? Two? I can eat five. On a good day—ten. Wait. Maybe I want a McMuffin."_

"I thought you were getting McNuggets."

"_Shit."_

"Get both."

"_Oh. _Duh_."_ He hears the rustling of Natasha muffling her phone against her collar while she gives Happy his directions, then there is a car door slamming shut and he can hear her clearly again. "_Uh—hey. Is my cousin there?"_

"Who—? Oh_._" Bruce distantly remembers Natasha having mentioned a cousin staying with her for a short time. "No. I haven't seen him at all."

"_Huh. Maybe he's still at the old place. Okay. That's fine. I'll be home in like—thirty minutes? Give or take?"_

"Okay." And Bruce should end it there, but his mouth traitorously opens and asks, "By the way, I haven't seen your boyfriend around."

_"Huh?"_

"I haven't seen Loki around the Tower," Bruce says carefully as he steps out of the lift and realizes he's arrived at the labs, though he'd meant to return to the penthouse. Habit, he supposes.

"_Oh."_ Natasha replies in a tone that seems conflicted between being offended, annoyed and confused. She takes a moment to properly answer. "_He's just taking care of some things for me. Why?"_

Bruce paces down the long white hallway towards his designated lab. Raising his brows high on his head, he doesn't bother hiding the smirk from his tone, "Oh yeah? What things?"

_"_Osborn_ things,"_ Natasha replies shortly. "_Probably best you don't know too much. His methods aren't strictly—legal."_

"I'm sure they _aren't_," Bruce hums, fishing his badge from his pocket and swiping it across the ID scanner.

Natasha is quiet for another beat. Finally, she sighs and says, "_Two McMuffins. See you in a bit."_

She hangs up before he responds.

"See you in a bit."

* * *

He thinks it'll get easier, but it doesn't.

That's usually the way of it, though, so he can't complain. He _wants_ to, and sometimes he _does_—sometimes he lets himself dwell on the self-pity and self-loathing for so long that it seems like he'll never find the light again. Other times, he looks at Aunt May—how hard she's working to give him a good life and how, even with his new job at Stark Industries, she refuses to relinquish her job on account of the fact that he is still a minor and she is still his guardian and she'll be _damned_ if she's going to rely on her nephew's income to sustain them. They're still living off of her paychecks, but there's some relief in the knowledge that with the substantial paycheck he'll be receiving from his new boss, he can start saving up for a decent college and a place of his own, and _maybe_—maybe he'll have enough for a little something on the side so he can take care of his Aunt May the way she's been taking care of him.

He thinks he'll always be grateful to Natasha Stark for this opportunity—most days can't believe it's _real_ and is waiting with baited breath for the rug to be pulled out from under his feet and his world to come crumbling down around him.

Again.

"Hey _Parker!"_

Peter jumps, startled, and turns to see a familiar blonde head weaving through a sea of far less notable heads. He can see the look of intense determination on Gwen's face even before she's broken through the wall of bodies—spots the expression immediately and has to bite down on a grin. He mostly fails.

He also fails at making his escape—his mind temporarily vacating his body as he admires the pinch of her lips and the bounce of her bangs above her brow as she jogs to him. Gwen is upon him too quickly, taking his arm forcibly and dragging him into the nearest classroom—which is fortunately vacant—and even his super strength does not seem invulnerable to her presence for it, too, has abandoned him mercilessly to her wiles. Peter gapes, eyes wide, as she promptly locks the door behind them and swivels to face him, arms crossed over her chest and utilizing all 5'7'' of herself to block the door.

"So—uh—" Peter fumbles for words, ducking his head and scrubbing a hand through his hair. He swallows and peeks through the wisps of his bangs. "How … are—you?"

Gwen's scowl does little to detract from her beauty—but it's intimidating all the same. "Last week, you're talking to me and I think everything's normal again. This week it's like I might as well be Swiss _cheese_—"

"I _like_ cheese. I am not impartial to cheese—"

"I don't get it. I don't get _you._ You need to make up your mind and stop being such an inconsistent _jerk_ because I'm not one of those girls that's going to just let you walk all over her and—"

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa!"_

Peter steps forward, holding his hands up in the air between them. Gwen's mouth clamps shut and her lips press together in a firm line. Peter sighs and feels that nauseating twist in his stomach that's a combination of every conflicting emotion Gwen Stacy is capable of making him feel. He cares for her—he wouldn't do this to her if he _didn't_—but he's also never been good with people. He's never had someone reciprocate his feelings and the temptation of pursuing it is almost too strong. It's a constant battle against his better senses that a part of him wants to lose because this is _Gwen Stacy_ and how many chances does someone like _him_ get with a girl like _her?_

It's not easy and it isn't fair. To her or to him. He wants to be the good guy. He wants to do what's right. He wants to be the sort of guy that can give up his happiness for the greater good—but _it's not fair._ It hurts him _so much_ and he doesn't know how to handle that—is tired of pain because this last year has been nothing _but_ pain and he just wants something good. He wants Aunt May to be enough—his dedication to her protection and his loyalty to Uncle Ben's memory often is just the thing to kick sense back into him—but then he sees Gwen and it's as if all common sense shuts down and it's just chemicals firing and his body reacting and he doesn't know how to defend against that.

He's never had to learn _how_ to.

Gwen is still glaring at him, waiting, and Peter sighs dejectedly. He owes her an explanation—he wants to just rip himself open and let her see everything that's inside so she can _understand_ why he's doing what he's doing and she'll know that he would _never, ever_ want to hurt her and how agonizing it is to him that he _has._ Will probably _continue_ to hurt her. And _that's_ why it's just better if she—

Just better if she …

Peter swallows heavily; he doesn't have the strength to even think it. "Gwen," he exhales her name and its painful in every way—good and bad. "I'm sorry. It's—I'm trying to figure some things out. My life is a mess and—it wouldn't be fair to drag you into it after …" He hesitates—straightens his back and focuses his eyes on a spot of wall right next to her head. He says sorrowfully, "You've suffered enough because of me."

Stubbornly, she steps forward. "Well, maybe I _want_ you to drag me into it. Maybe I want to _help_."

Peter thinks he feels himself shattering again—his eyes prickle and he lifts his chin a fraction, as if he could keep himself from tearing up like a sap if he could coerce the liquid back into his eyes. He whispers, "I can't break my promise."

"You broke it once already."

"Gwen—" Peter starts, desperate—she needs to understand and suddenly that stubbornness he'd fallen head-over-heels for is now the very thing breaking his heart. He still can't look her in the eyes. "How can you even want anything to do with me? I—your—aren't you still—?"

"Who _else_ can I talk to, Peter?" She doesn't raise her voice, but her tone is one that it feels as if she had and Peter flinches. She takes another step to him and he won't look away from the wall so her features are blurred in his peripheral. Her voice trembles as she speaks but it is impossibly strong—stronger than he's ever felt. "I lost my _dad_ to a _monster_. You think I can talk to my _family_ about this? You think I _want_ to? They need someone to be strong for them but I _can't_. I'm _not_ a super-hero. I can only take so much and you—you need to just let me be selfish and get over yourself because I _need_ you."

He wants to say something hopelessly romantic or appropriate—but obviously, there's none of that. All he can do is apologize—and look her in the eyes. "Okay." He says. "Okay. I'm sorry. I just—I just wish I could make everything better for you. For everyone. I hate—I hate that I can't."

Gwen is directly in front of him, reaching out to grab his arms. He studies her face with the hunger of a starved man and just a little more of him breaks at the wet sheen over her eyes and the puffiness of red under her makeup. He studies each clump of eyelashes, pulled together by unshed tears. A single pearl drop of wetness is gathered at the corner of her eyes and he watches them, terrified of the fall.

"No one is asking you to," she says. "Stop being an asshole and give me a shoulder to cry on because I'm not—I'm not sure I can do this for much longer. I'm not sure I can be okay for much longer."

Peter can't help a snort of laughter at her bossy tone. He hears the echo of vulnerability beneath it and swallows again. He wants to apologize again but thinks she might slap him so he waits for a cue so that he knows what he's supposed to say next. It doesn't come. He frowns. "Um. Did … you want to _talk?_ Now?"

Gwen drops her hands and scoffs, stepping away and swiftly wiping at her eyes. "Are you crazy? _No._ You think I want everyone to see me sobbing like a little girl at school? Like I don't have enough people pitying me and pretending they _care."_

Peter grimaces. "Your dad _was_ actually pretty important to the—"

"Can you not?" She pleads, expression contorted in pain that Peter feels echoed in his gut. She sniffs—seems to struggle to summon up a suitable veneer. "Not here. Seriously, I'm like five words away from becoming a sobbing and inconsolable mess. Ugly crying, Peter. It'll be ugly crying and then some douchebag is going to record it and post it on YouTube and I'll live in infamy and—_nope._ No thank you."

Peter blinks. "All …. right?"

She's glaring at his feet like she's thinking about every jerk who's tried to take advantage of her vulnerability and Peter can't help but feel both remorseful and sympathetic.

* * *

"Dude—your DNA looks like an Irish mother's soup."

"It's in _flux_. Point-zero-zero-zero-_one_ percent variance." Bruce doesn't look up from the laptop he has propped across from her on their shared workstation. She stares at the projected hologram between them displaying the lab results from Bruce's blood tests and doesn't know whether she's scared or fascinated or a little of both. Usually both. Bruce adds, after a minute, "Most of the time, I'm not really human."

"_Weird,"_ Natasha murmurs, a little breathless from awe.

"I know," Bruce says, not nearly as impressed.

She squints her eyes at the reforming strands of DNA. Says, "I'm not going to lie. I'm a little freaked out."

Bruce huffs. "I live with this. I know."

"Synthetic hormones?" She wonders out loud, focusing her eyes through the hologram to look at Bruce. His expression is pinched and unreadable and she doesn't know if he's equally as disturbed or just … whatever his usual state of being is. She can't help but muse, "If you ever had kids, they'd make their way out of their unlucky womb on _flippers_ and _tentacles_."

Bruce grimaces at his screen but doesn't look up. "That's not a concern. I can't even … "

Natasha taps a command on the interactive workstation and the hologram vanishes, reappearing on the monitor of her computer. When Bruce doesn't continue, his meaning finally clicks and Natasha gapes at him, horrified. "_No."_

Bruce doesn't shrug, but his tone is dismissive. "Too dangerous. I can't get too excited." He smirks humorlessly at his screen. " Still haven't mastered that particular quarter of my brain."

"_Dude._ No. _No." _Natasha is genuinely, _genuinely_, horrified. "_Oh_, I'm so _sorry_."

"_Really_, Natasha?" Bruce snaps, looking up at last to meet her eyes with a glare. "You maybe want to think about getting your priorities checked. Sex hasn't really been on the forefront of my mind given that I'm sharing a body with someone who'd just as quickly make jam out of whomever I took to bed."

"Oh—_ooh._ That's—not a mental image I needed."Natasha winces, shaking her head as she drops into her chair and scoots into the station and closer to her monitor.

"Then don't _picture _it." Bruce mutters unsympathetically.

Natasha groans, the substantial amount of horror and gore movies she's watched making it impossible for her mind not to try to envision a scenario where a Bruce Banner goes Hulk mid-fuck. It's like the premise to a truly horrific porno. She thinks about the Chitauri incident and seeing the mushy evidence of what the Hulk's might was capable of. It doesn't help. She feels a little sick.

Eventually, when she's managed to distract herself with her work, she remembers an earlier realization. It's probably unnecessary to vocalize it, but she does, anyway. "You know we're going to have to get you to … _turn._"

"I kinda figured."

"We'll need to establish _two_ baselines," she says, thinking out loud now more than anything. "We need to know exactly what goes on in your body during the change. Is this polyploidy I'm looking at—or maybe more than two sets of chromosomes? It might account for increased cell size—but it's like …"

She looks back at Bruce at the same time he looks at her and he says, "Like there's—_literally_—a _whole other person_ hiding in my cells."

Natasha frowns, hands stalled over her keyboard. "I mean—I've always considered you and the Hulk to be different. But I'd never considered—at_ this_ level … " She trails off, leaning back in her chair and dropping her hands to her lap. She stares into the space between them, pensive. "Well, it _does_ make sense. I guess we should look at the '_how'._ Do you know how much of the Hulk is ghosted out in your cell structure right now? You said it fluctuates. Does this mean there are periods where the Hulk is nearly completely absent from your system?"

Bruce shrugs, sliding his laptop further up on the workstation so he can cross his arms on the edge of the desk and lean forward. "I don't even … know. I can control it—you know—with anger. Trauma can still trigger it, though. Like—heavy stress or something."

"I'm not sure I understand the whole—" Natasha makes a snarling face and clawing motions with her hands, says, "—'always angry' thing."

"Trust me," Bruce says, wearily. "It's the easiest part of this all."

Natasha nods, and moves on to another question. "Have you transformed recently?"

Bruce shakes his head. "No. No, I haven't. I've been too … _scared_ to." He plucks his glasses from his face and begins to fidget with them, cleaning the lenses with his sleeve. "I'm worried that I won't remember how to turn back. The Hulk …"

It's easy, when she's in the mindset of work and research, not to give in to sentiment. She doesn't feel guilty pressing Bruce for answers because, after all, he was the one who'd turned to _her_ for help. She was just doing the best she could trying to understand his situation. "How long has it been?"

"I had an incident a couple of months after New York—" Bruce admits quietly, studying the hinges of his glasses with interest. "But other than that, I haven't had reason to … change."

Natasha hums, thoughtfully, and glances at her monitor. "I'm very interested in learning what the correlation is between your shifting and the density of the Hulk's presence in your cells."

"I'm less worried about that—more concerned with getting this thing figured out. I just want to find a cure and getting rid of the problem altogether."

Natasha cuts him a look, wry smirk twisting her lips. "Well, he's not a _tumor _you can excise."

Bruce grimaces, frowning at her. "_Please_ don't compare my situation to cancer. That's just—just don't."

Natasha nods soberly. "I'm sorry."

He nods, slipping his glasses back on and folding his hands together on top of the workstation, massaging one hand over the other nervously. "The thing is—the thing that worries me—What if it's permanent? The Super Soldier stack was built to bond permanently with the cellular structure of its host, as it did with Steve. It may be a failed version of its predecessor, but my formula was created to essentially do the same. It's constantly telling my body that it _needs_ to be the Hulk. That Bruce Banner is a failure." He looks pained, and there's a flash of anger behind his eyes that makes Natasha sit up. "It's—it's _ridiculous._ The whole point was to replicate the Super Soldier procedure—develop an army and then …"

Natasha watches him cautiously as he struggles to rein in his temper. Her first thought is that she wishes Loki were here—even if his presence would be more likely to set off Bruce or the Hulk, at least Loki would have a chance of containing him whereas _she_ … she was too many floors away from her nearest Iron Woman suit and that thought was suddenly very chilling.

"I wanted so much_ more_ for my serum." Bruce tightens his hands over each other and lets out a heavy breath. Incredulously, he grumbles, "Steve's a great guy—but you think he was a tactical genius _before_ he became a Super Soldier?"

Natasha snorts, maintaining a light tone. "Oh, trust me, I never held such delusions. It's still what comforts me late at night."

He doesn't seem to be listening to her—but he doesn't seem like he's losing control, either. "I wanted my process to be better. _I_ wanted to be better. I saw what the Super Soldier Serum could do with an average mind and I wanted to push further—go _beyond_ that." He chuckles darkly and Natasha frowns. Bruce's sneer seems out of place and she suddenly feels like she's looking at a completely different person. "But that's the rub, isn't it? My curse. I get to be something that's eight times bigger and stronger than the Captain—with the IQ of a _shoe._ Natasha, I can _feel_ it. I feel it clawing inside of me. The slightest thing—an insult or being jostled on the street—and it wants _out_. Wants to be a Super Soldier and _crush everything it sees."_

The air between them seems to vibrate with Bruce's emotions and Natasha keeps absolutely still, allowing him silence until he has relaxed enough that she doesn't have to fear his transformation. When he's regained his composure, she thinks she catches a glint of shame in his eyes. He doesn't say anything else, sliding his laptop closer to him and returning to his work with renewed intensity.

Very quietly, Natasha returns to her computer, for once at a loss for words and too much of a coward to find them.

* * *

"I hear Jessica's coming back to school today."

Peter frowns at the combination lock of his locker when it fails to budge. "Jessica?"

"Jessica _Jones?" _Gwen leans in to murmur incredulously, as if to spare Peter the embarrassment of not knowing the identity of this mysterious girl. Which—he's been _busy._ So, no, he _doesn't_ know who Jessica Jones is. "Seriously, Peter? She's like in three of our classes."

Peter glances at her a grimaces. "… Sorry?" Gwen has a way of making him feel guilty about things he didn't realize he was supposed to feel guilty about.

She rolls her eyes. "Jeez."

He's surprised that she actually seems upset by his ignorance. "So—did something happen to her, or … ?" Peter asks, finally getting his combination to work and jerking the locker open so he could swap his history book for chemistry.

"She was in a terrible accident—"

Peter smirks into the locker. "Aren't they _all_ terrible?" He doesn't know why he is being so insensitive—wonders if it has to do with his exposure to the notoriously snarky Stark. It had taken him only a day to realize that he was going to have to acquire some thicker skin if he wanted to survive as Ms. Stark's assistant.

"Are you going to shut up?" Gwen snaps, clearly not in a humoring mood.

Startled, Peter grabs his things and shuts his locker, turning his full attention to her. "Sorry. Go on. I take it she's okay now?"

It strikes him that Gwen looks almost sickly pale and that she's glaring at his chest like she's not really looking at him at all. "_Yeah_—after she was in a coma for, like—three months."

"Oh. Whoa." Peter feels his stomach turn to lead and—suddenly, Gwen's expression makes sense. He doesn't reach out a comforting hand because she knows she'd hate it if he attracted attention to her distress. Another part of him is disappointed and ashamed that he hadn't known who Jessica Jones _was_. Quietly, he murmurs, "Did—was everyone okay?"

Gwen shuts her eyes briefly and shakes her head. She doesn't cry, but Peter can see emotion brimming in her eyes and it makes his heart clench.

He sighs. " … Maybe let's talk about something else?"

She nods and it takes most of the walk to their chemistry class before she is back to her normal self. In the interim, Peter struggles with himself, acknowledging that his choice to focus on Aunt May and his future (and Spiderman) was the reason he was so out of touch with his peers and things at school. It's not like he's ever had much in the way of friends—mostly just guys he talked to in class and maybe sometimes online over school projects. Once upon a time, he thinks he'd even lamented his pitiful lack of a social life, but now … now it was more of a blessing than anything else, allowing him to focus on the things that mattered.

They linger outside of class before the bell, neither saying anything but enjoying each other's company while they sort out their thoughts.

Suddenly, the principal's voice comes in through the speakers, ordering all students to head to the nearest classroom—and then the alarm is _blaring _and Peter jerks away from the noise, back slamming to the wall as his sensitive ear ring painfully. Gwen is in front of him in seconds, soothing hands on his shoulders. It takes a while for his hearing to adjust; when it does, he watches as students grumble and drag their feet into the nearest classroom with absolutely no urgency at all.

Gwen is frowning. "Did we have a drill scheduled today?"

The shrill screech of the alarm is still ringing in his ears so it takes him a while to realize that there's another kind of buzz, somewhere in the back of his head—like a nagging feeling or a sense of foreboding. He tries to shake his head and clear it but it doesn't help and the bad feeling only grows.

"I'm not sure it's a drill," Peter says, feeling his heart speed up. Gwen meets his eyes knowingly and he nods. "You need to go."

She looks like she wants to argue, but instead she returns his nod, darting in for a quick kiss and then jogging across the hall to their chem lab. When she's safely inside, Peter takes a steadying breath and lets his backpack slip from his shoulder into his hand as he ducks into the closest bathroom.

He has just tugged out his mask when he sees that he is not alone and it's only his enhanced reflexes that allow him to quickly hide the mask behind his back before the other students have noticed him. The two boys blink sluggishly, the one closest to Peter sucking absently on a quarter of a blunt.

Coughing at the overwhelming stench of weed, Peter glares. "Don't you hear the alarm? Move it!"

One of the boys snorts, rolling his eyes, and his friend drawls, "Dude, _relax_. It's just a drill—"

The buzzing is an incessant drone now and it makes Peter's blood run cold. "It's not a drill! _Go!"_

With another eye-roll and a sneer, they drop their joint and shove past him, muttering, " … little bitch."

Peter ignores them because—_seriously? I'm trying to save your _lives_ here!_ He strips quickly out of his school clothes to the suit underneath, pulling on Spiderman's mask and shoving his clothes into his backpack. He's struck with a moment of indecision about what to do with his backpack and eventually settles on abandoning it under the sinks, webbing it in place under the counter. And then—a loud _boom_ echoes throughout the school and he feels the vibrations of it under his feet.

He hits a wall of _sound_ when he bursts out of the bathroom—it takes him a second to decipher the sound as screams but by then he's already leaping to the tiled ceiling and scrambling as quickly as he can in the direction of all the noise. The screaming is accompanied by a strange hissing sound, and an occasional crash—it only adds to his panic and then before he can prepare for an assault, a tidal wave of sand comes crashing through the double doors of the cafeteria, pinning him against the opposite wall.

With a groan, Peter falls to the tile as the wave of sand pulls away. He looks to the right to see a man running down the hall in the opposite direction, duffel clutched in one hand and a trail of sand tailing after him.

Scrambling to his feet, Peter shouts a "Hey!" and whips out a hand, webbing shooting out several yards and hitting its mark with absolute precision. The man's entire body jerks backwards as Peter tugs sharply on his webbing, sending the duffel bag flying out of the man's hands and arcing across the hall towards Peter. It skids on the tile between them; behind him, Peter hears students scrambling out of the cafeteria and down the hall in the opposite direction.

"Spiderman!" the man snarls, crouching as if preparing to leap across the hall after his bag.

"You _know _me!" Peter grins, tugging on the string of webbing to slide the duffel bag to his feet. "Guess no introductions are necessary, then!"

"You're gunna stay outta my _way_, punk—if you know what's good for ya!"

Peter rolls his eyes, releasing his hold on the webbing and dropping a foot on top of the duffel—feels something slide and shift under his foot and thinks its what stacks of bound cash would feel like. It's so ridiculously cliched that he grins. "I _spy_ with my _Spidey-eyes_ … something … _green?"_

The man's glower hardens; Peter thinks he sees something flake away from his clenched fists and remembers the sand. It's not the first time he's dealt with a criminal with powers, but there doesn't seem to be any _one_ type of ability and each encounter is just as much uncharted territory as the first.

"Give that back an' no one's gotta get hurt, y'here?"

Peter slips his foot under the duffel and kicks it into the air, catching it under one arm and wagging a finger at the man. "Now, now—you've gotta _catch_ me, _first."_

The man snarls and suddenly his arms seem to _explode _in sand, bursting towards Peter at an incredible rate. He barely has the chance to leap to the ceiling on all fours, clutching the duffel tightly to his side as he bounds away from the sand-man.

His mind is abuzz with activity and his first priority is clear—get this creep _away_ from the science department and _away_ from Gwen. He's scrambling down hallways without any destination in mind, unsure what to do with the duffel or even how to deal with a guy who's apparently able to turn various parts, if not his _whole _body, into _sand_.

Thus far, his resume has consisted mainly of fighting day to day criminals with no particular set of powers to speak of beyond an incredible lack of morality. Doctor Connors had been a big fish (or _lizard_), but Peter knew that without George Stacy and without _Connors_, he would not have been able to defeat the Lizard alone. The Octo-freak from the other day had been the second _real_ villain (actually deserving of the title) he'd encountered, and he'd had the extreme fortune of _Captain America and Iron Woman _on his side.

Presently, it's just him and some guy who can turn his body to sand and a school full of innocent people.

Understandably, Peter is freaking out.

When he'd faced the Lizard with only Captain Stacy, people had _died._ Gwen's _father _had died. Right now, he feels so far out of his league—and the more he thinks about it the more terrified he is that he is going to screw this up and someone is going to get hurt.

He turns a corner sharply—then realizes that the sand-guy is no longer behind him. This brings him to a stuttering halt, his heart in his throat. Dropping to the floor, he lands on his feet soundlessly.

And then the wall to his left erupts in debris and sand, knocking him into the wall opposite. The duffel bag is flung out of his arms, skidding down the hall. Peter tries to recover from the impact but when he blinks—the sand-guy is suddenly in front of him, arm drawn back for a punch, face twisted in a snarl. Peter drops just as the man's fist is about to connect and the wall behind him shudders from the impact. The man is huffing in anger, tugging on his fist where it's embedded into the wall. From his position on the ground, Peter can see the hole blown through the wall behind the sand-man. He can smell the chlorine of the gymnasium pool on the other side.

"Where's my _money?!"_ the man belows.

"Is that _really_ your money? Let's be honest." Peter quips back.

Granules of sand sprinkle down on him and Peter springs to action, flattening his back to the wall behind him and whipping out both hands, shooting out twin streams of webbing that latch onto the man's shoulders. He yanks down on his end of the ropes with all his strength, using the momentum to vault himself over the man's head. He lands flat on his hands and feet on the ceiling above, whips out a hand and releases another stream of webbing that catches the man by the back of the neck.

In one powerful motion, Peter yanks back on the webbing, pulling the man in a backwards swing that sends him flying through the hole in the wall and into the other room.

A large splash is Peter's reward.

Peter lets the pull of the webbing still attached to the sand-man drag him into the gymnasium and he releases his hold the moment his feet hit the ground. He spots the man floundering to the shallow end of the pool and watches, bemused, as his skin seems to sag—like wet sand on a beach being pulled by the tide.

As the man reaches the steps, struggling to tread the water and expression murderous, Peter prepares for an attack.

A buzz in the back of his head is his only warning, causing him to stumble back a step. Abruptly, something shatters the windows of the gymnasium and blurs past him, connecting squarely with the center of the sand-man's back.

It's an arrow.

The man is too stunned to make a sound—then Peter realizes that a thin sheen of … _something_ is spreading along the man's skin, originating from the arrow. It takes a second for Peter to recognize that it's … _ice. _It envelops him like a second skin and the sand-man is quickly frozen in place—but before Peter can begin processing what's happened, two men are diving in through the windows and Peter panics, leaping upwards to cling to the ceiling. He blinks down at the two men … and feels his blood run _cold. _

It's Captain America and …

Some other guy.

With a bow.

Both men stride across the gymnasium to the frozen criminal with a brisk gait. The Captain is dressed in full regalia, the blue of his now signature uniform strikingly surreal and out of place. Next to him, his companion is dressed in streamlined body armor; it's both militaristic and not. Polarized sunglasses conceal his eyes and Peter spots a quiver on his back and a sleek bow in his hand.

"I've been wanting to try that one out for a while," the archer is saying to Captain America as they calmly make their way around the pool to the sand-man. "It's _alright_. Worked out well in this case, at least. Don't tell her though. She'll never let me hear the end of it."

"When would I tell her?" Captain America replies seriously, frowning at the frozen sand-man.

The archer shrugs, an ironic smirk on his lips. "She was inspired by Loki's little thing. You know? With the ice on the buildings?"

"Yeah, I remember," Captain America replies.

Then, suddenly, both men still, exchanging silent looks. Peter feels his heart race and quietly shifts along the ceiling, towards the windows. Captain America and his partner are looking around silently, searching.

Feeling sick from panic, Peter leaps through the broken windows and _runs._

* * *

Gwen finds him almost immediately. He's back in his regular clothes, thanking God that he hadn't given the sand-man an opportunity to do much damage because he's running out of excuses to tell Aunt May and _eventually_ he suspects it's going to be hard to convince Ms. Stark that he really _is_ that big of a clutz.

He's standing in the hall just outside of the gymnasium with what feels like the entire student body, watching as Captain America and several other uniformed men cart the sand-man out of the room. There are reporters lining up just outside the windows trying to get a good shot of the crime scene and NYPD officers on the other side trying to keep them from seeing much. Captain America is huddled with the archer and a few other agents and Peter is testing his ability to read lips when Gwen pops out of nowhere, squeezing through the crowd of oglers behind Peter.

"Whoa. What happened?" she gasps, more fascinated th

an scared. He doesn't know what to say and a student behind her offers their guess. It's lost to Gwen, who starts rifling through her purse until she comes out with her vibrating phone. "Hello? Mom—? Oh. Who—? Oh. _Oh._ Oh my God—uh. Okay. Yeah. Yeah. Yes. Of course. Here—uh. Pete?"

Peter drags his eyes away from Captain America's shield to blink at her. "Hm?"

She's holding out her phone to him, staring at it like she's never seen anything like it in her life. "It's … for you?"

Peter frowns. "What?"

"It's … Natasha. Stark." Gwen looks up, meeting his eye. "Natasha Stark. Is calling my phone. Holy—"

Peter grabs for the phone, nearly dropping it in his surprise and still shaky nerves. He holds it to his ear, stepping into the gymnasium to get away from the busybodies loitering in the hall. A police officer frowns at him but doesn't otherwise mind him; he's still well enough away from the taped off scene and the sand-man (who Peter is _actually_ dubbing the Sandman) has long been carted off so he isn't disturbed when he finally finds his breath to speak.

"Wh—hello?"

"_Parker!_" Yes, that is Natasha Stark.

Peter thinks he forgets how to breathe. His brain is clearly not functioning when he stutters, "How do you have Gwen's—why are you calling me on—uh." He takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "What's up?"

Ms. Stark doesn't sound amused. She doesn't sound annoyed, either, so that's good. She asks, "_Is Rogers there?"_

"Uh—y-yeah." Peter looks up to locate the Captain. "D'you want me to get him?"

"_Please._"

He's going to talk to Captain America. He's going to—_holy crap._ "O-okay. S—why are you … calling on Gwen's phone?"

"_Because you're going to need yours,"_ Ms. Stark says, like that should be obvious. "_Just tell Rogers I need to talk to him. I'll keep him busy. I want you to use your phone—the one I _gave_ you; you better have it."_

Peter fumbles through his pockets until he locates his phone. He holds it out in front of himself, grinning in victory—and then grimaces, grateful Ms. Stark was not there to see him act like such a dork. "Ah—okay? What do you want me to do?"

"_I need a good look at the scene."_

Peter grins; can't help himself from saying, "You a detective now, Ms. Stark?"

_"When I need to be," _she says, and he thinks he hears a matching grin.

Swallowing a breath, Peter gathers his strength and walks carefully across the gym until he's standing behind Captain America. The hero's brawn seems to block Peter from the view of the archer and the other agents and with no small amount of anxiety, he reaches up to tap the Captain tentatively on the shoulder.

Captain America turns sharply, dropping his gaze to him. He blinks, and then his frown dissolves to a small bemused smile. His eyes flick about the room, like he's searching for someone. After a second, he looks back to Peter, smile still in place. "Peter?"

Behind the Captain, the archer and two agents are staring at Peter with the most stoic expressions he has ever seen.

His stomach in knots, he stutters, "Hi—ub—ah—Mr—ah—Cap—er—tain. America. Hi. Hey. Heh—"

Ms. Stark huffs quietly on the other line. "_Oh. Wow. So smooth. You're a spy, aren't you? Have you had training, because that was beautiful. You deserve an Oscar for that performance."_

Peter groans quietly—wishes the ground would open up and just swallow him. "Okay. Okay," He mutters to her and Captain America frowns. Peter needs another breath. "Ah—Mister … ah—Captain? Ms. Stark ... would like to speak with you."

"Stark?"

The two agents behind the Captain share a look then walk away. The archer is quirking a brow, amused, and also clearly intrigued; Peter really wishes he would walk away as well because he already feels like an idiot. He doesn't need an audience.

"_Oh! Wait! Real quick!" _Ms. Stark says before Peter can relinquish the phone to the Captain. "_Don't let him see you recording any footage or taking pictures. It _is_ the scene of a crime and he's kind've a boy scout."_

Peter has the impression that what Ms. Stark is asking him to do is not strictly legal. He blinks, suddenly too numb to react. _"_Right."

_"_Ah—sure." The Captain is saying, accepting the phone from Peter with a curious blink. Peter hands it over and stares, owlishly, as Captain America shifts away to speak into the phone. "Stark? Hey. Yeah, I have everything—yes. No. I don't think so. No, they're not—Hawkeye and I are the only ones here. We're working with the NYPD on this one."

"Tell her we sighted Spiderman, but the little bugger scampered off before we could interrogate him," the archer says suddenly, ironic smirk in place that doesn't seem to affect anything beyond his mouth. Peter finds the fact that he can't see the man's eyes suddenly very disconcerting—can't shake the feeling that the archer is looking at _him_ and isn't sure if that's just nerves or his weird Spidey-senses.

Peter frowns and listens as the Captain continues to speak. "Did you get that? Yeah. Hawkeye says he saw them to—No. Probably not. I doubt it. He doesn't strike me … yeah. I'm sure. You did tell him to stay _away_. Maybe he listened."

"Okay, Spiderman's still a _vigilante_. Tell her to stop encouraging kids to act outside the _law_," the archer, Hawkeye presumably, mutters with a frown.

"I don't think that's what she's doing," Captain America replies to him, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Quietly, Peter hears someone whisper. "Oh. My. _God_."

He recognizes Gwen's voice and can't look away from the Captain and Hawkeye to look at her. He exhales an almost dreamy, "_Yeah_."

"Oh my _God, _Peter!" Gwen hisses excitedly, clutching at his arm with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Yeah," he whispers back.

Neither Captain America nor Hawkeye are paying them any attention and so Peter slowly tries to drag himself away, Gwen following at a begrudging pace, still clinging to his arm. "What did she want? What—that's—is that _Captain America?"_

"Yeah."

"And he knows your _name?"_

_"_Yup."

_"_Dude_!"_

"I know."

"_Dude!"_

"I _know."_

"Wow," she exhales, louder now that they're at a decent distance from either hero. "That's—what are you doing?"

Peter is fiddling with his phone, trying to get his brain working enough to remember how to work his camera. "Ms. Stark wants me take pictures, I guess." Suddenly, his screen goes dark—then an entirely new screen pops up and it's … _behaving _like a camera, but it's nothing like Peter has ever seen. "Whoa."

Gwen presses closer, following his eyes to his phone. "What?"

There's a little circular target rotating on his screen and every time he angles the phone, it whips across the screen, scanning over everything that Peter points his camera to. "I think Ms. Stark just hacked my phone."

Along the bottom of his screen he sees a text pop up: **I can hear you. Stop talking. Get to work. Don't let the Capsicle see you.**

Gwen squeals. "Oh my—"

**God. Parker, contain your girlfriend. **

Gwen slaps a hand over her mouth to silence any other sound, then drops her hand to grin up at Peter. Peter shrugs because … this is already way past the point of blowing his mind.

On the screen, Ms. Stark is texting again: **Give me a slow pan of the scene. I'm recording everything.**

Gwen squirms beside him, releasing his arm so he can do as he's told. In an effort to be discreet, she leans into his ear to whisper excitedly, "Holy _moly_! This is so cool!"

"I know!" Peter whispers back with a huge grin.

He hasn't seen Gwen this excited in a long time and it makes his chest swell with emotion. Gwen is giddily bouncing on the balls of her teeth, struggling to keep her voice down. "Peter, that's _Iron Woman!"_

His cheeks are hurting from grinning so hard. "I_ know!"_

"Oh my _God!"_

When Peter glances back to the phone, there's another text at the bottom of the screen.

**I will hurt you both. Stop giggling. You're shaking the camera.**

He grimaces, forcing himself to try and relax so he can do as he's told. "Sorry."

Gwen pulls away from Peter completely but she's still bouncing on her feet. She pouts at the phone as if Ms. Stark could see her. "Sorry."

* * *

"You're going to get him in trouble."

Natasha is still on her laptop, quietly inspecting the footage being delivered through Parker's phone. She doesn't immediately reply to Bruce, typing a snarky text and sending it to Parker instead. "He's already in trouble. Rogers just busted him."

"You're lucky Steve's too nice a guy to turn him in," Bruce murmurs into the screen of his laptop, fingers ticking over the keys of his keyboard. "You could have gotten him arrested. You're definitely abusing that kid's infatuation with you."

"I'm not abusing anything," Natasha mutters back distractedly—falters when she registers that what she said could be misconstrued and glances over at Bruce to see him smirking at his laptop. Natasha frowns. "Okay, everyone needs to stop with the jailbait comments. It's getting old."

Bruce doesn't comment so Natasha turns back to her computer to inspect the footage. She exchanges a few more messages with Peter, thinks over everything Rogers was able to give her based on what evidence remained in the aftermath of the criminal's confrontation with Spiderman. On one window on her screen is S.H.I.E.L.D.s criminal registry. She knows it's procedure for them to take thumbprints and DNA samples as soon as possible in order to identify possible threats to national security. Given that this particular adversary had been restrained upon S.H.I.E.L.D.'s arrival, the man's information is uploaded within minutes. She uses this information to help her look further into the man, duplicating relevant data from the registry so that she can build her own file on a William Barker, codename: Sandman (_thank you, Parker_).

She's working on this when she receives a call on her business cell; the unregistered number pops up on the corner of her computer screen and she narrows her eyes at it, flicks a glance at the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the registry, then taps twice on the workstation. Where Bruce's DNA had been projecting before, a silhouette of a man appears from the shoulders up. Bruce pauses his work to look up at the hologram but Natasha resumes her work as the caller speaks.

"_Ms. Stark? Are you busy?"_

"Well, I answered, didn't I?" She replies without the usual bite to her tone, distracted with pulling together everything she can find on the Sandman. "Who is this?"

"_It's … Hank Pym? We spoke a while back. If you recall, I am currently heading the new_—"

"Yeah, I remember who you are. What do you want?"

There's no typing coming from Bruce's end of the desk so she looks up to see he is staring into the space just under the projection, frowning in thought. Natasha doesn't say anything as she waits for Pym to elaborate.

"_I've run into_—_well. I'd like to meet, if that's at all possible. Preferably _here. _I fear this matter is too sensitive to discuss over the phone."_

"Not interested," Natasha replies, tone hard.

"_Ms. Stark, if you can please set aside your_—"

_"Not_. Interested." Natasha doesn't look away from her screen but she feels Bruce's eyes boring into her from across the workstation.

Pym sighs. "_Very well. I_—_Please contact me if you change your mind."_

The hologram dissolves when the call ends and Natasha immediately pulls away from her computer, setting her hands on her lap and leaning back in her chair. Her eyes connect with Bruce's over the desk, expression steady, and she waits for her lecture.

Bruce is frowning. "Hank Pym. I know that name."

"He's following in your footsteps," Natasha acknowledges with little inflection. "I'm sure you _would_."

Bruce's frown deepens. "They're … they've picked up the program? Again? Why?" Natasha stares and Bruce closes his eyes, nodding. "Yes. Yes. Of course. I know why."

"I'm surprised they've never approached you about it."

"I'm not," Bruce shrugs. He plucks off his glasses and taps his foot restlessly; she can feel the light tremor of his movements translate across the desk to her. "Pym," Bruce says, consideringly. "Maybe … maybe it would be a good idea. To speak to him, that is."

Natasha doesn't say anything. She waits, knowing precisely where his train of thought will lead him.

"If S.H.I.E.L.D. has him working on the Super Soldier Serum, then … he might understand enough to—he might be able to help us."

Natasha allows a heavy silence to fall between them. It eats away at her skin but she requires the severity of it before she can speak. "Bruce," she says to call his attention. The jittering of his leg stops and he meets her eyes. "Pym works for S.H.I.E.L.D. If you involve him, you involve them. They may not take too kindly to you looking for ways to take away their favorite toy."

"Why wouldn't they want him gone? He's a danger to everyone. He can't be _controlled_."

"Doesn't mean they're not going to try," Natasha says calmly. "The Hulk is … an _incredibly_ valuable asset to have." More carefully, she adds, "I know that … _I_ wouldn't want to see him gone."

Bruce's eyes sharpen, his back straightens. "Then why are you helping me?"

"Because you are my friend," Natasha answers honestly. "And you asked for my help."

Something flashes behind his eyes and a twitch in his cheek has her standing only seconds quicker than Bruce. _Somehow_, she realizes, _that was not the right thing to say._ Her expression belays nothing and her eyes are hard; Bruce is taking this in with urgency and its making the pinch between his brows deepen.

"It's easy for you, isn't it?" Bruce says coldly. It doesn't surprise her and she watches as his entire body becomes defensive against her. "You've got _your_ monster on a _leash."_

"You're referring to Loki, I assume. " She doesn't understand why everyone seems to be under the impression that slandering the Trickster will compel her to jump to his defense. It appears to her that people are under the mistaken impression that she _gives a shit _what they think about him.

"You insist on—on _finding_ something redeeming about that monster! It's what you're trying to do with the _Hulk!_ I'm tired of it! I'm tired of feeling guilty for wanting to get rid of this—this _creature!_ He is a _monster._ He _kills_ people. And no matter what you think—he is _not_ your _friend!"_

"There's no need to get upset. I'm saying I will help you."

Bruce is her friend. A very _good_ friend. And he's a good guy. But Natasha is, quite frankly, finished tiptoeing around this issue. She'd thought to do him the courtesy of giving him space, but that's not her style. She's never been in a habit of keeping her opinions to herself and she's quite done extending this particular courtesy to Bruce. It's not doing either of them any favors.

Bruce wants the Hulk gone? Fine. But Natasha can't let herself be consumed with his obsession. Just an hour ago she'd received a reminder that, despite all illusions to the contrary, they were not at peace. She remembers the feeling of foreboding a year ago when Loki had returned and the war against the Chitauri had been resolved. The Hulk might be dangerous. He might not ever be controlled—but they were going to _need_ him and this wasn't a feeling Natasha could shake.

"I'm saying I will help you," Natasha repeats, slowly. "But that doesn't mean I will like it."

"You don't get it," Bruce shakes his head, smiling darkly. "You don't _know._ You get to use your genius to save the world nearly every other _week._"

"I'm certain not everyone would agree," Natasha murmurs. "Is that what this is about?"

They're facing each other and she thinks they look like adversaries more than friends. Their bodies are strict lines of tensions and they're staring directly into each others eyes, all familiarity gone. _It's healthy_, Natasha tells herself. Talking is healthy. Keeping secrets is what ruins friendships, isn't it?

"You're … _brilliant_." Bruce says and she takes no pleasure in the platitude, slipping her hands into the pockets of her slacks to hide her displeasure in a pose of nonchalance. "That's how people will remember you. Brilliant—a _hero_. I'll be lucky if my tombstone doesn't simply say _'Hulk smash'._"

She tries to smile, but it's a smirk more than anything and a miserable one, at that. " … I wouldn't do that to you. I personally like 'Green Rage Monster'."

This startles a sardonic laugh out of Bruce. "You fuckin' _would."_

"What's _really_ the problem?" Natasha asks quietly, smirk dissolving. Natasha studies Bruce's expression and adds: "_No matter_ how stupid a reason you think it is, if it's bothering you this much—I want to know. I can't do this—I can't help you with this—if I don't have all the variables."

Her words leech some of the fight out of him and his shoulders sag. He palms his face with both hands then buries his fingers in his hair. It takes him a minute to find words.

"I'm—it's _petty_ and I'm sorry—but—Natasha, how can you understand what I'm going through? The Hulk is like a debilitating cancer—I can't be _me_ as long as there is _Him. _This isn't what I wanted for my life. I had _dreams. _I had _goals_. All of which I had to throw away because of this … _monster."_

"You can still do _all _of those things," Bruce huffs, rolling his eyes, but Natasha goes on. "Bruce, you're incredible_._ You're the smartest guy I _know._ You're leagues beyond anyone else and—"

"Stop._ Stop._ This—_inside_ me—what He makes me _feel?_ I don't want that. I don't want to feel like this for the rest of my life."

He draws away from the workstation and begins pacing, his hands fluttering from his glasses to his sleeves. Natasha follows his path with her eyes and remains absolutely still.

"Do you know—I _hated_ you." She doesn't flinch. He rubs his eyes, grimacing. "Once. I'd never met you and I _hated _you because all anyone ever talks about is how _great_ you are and what a _genius_ you are and—and this is petty and stupid—but I _wanted_ that. I _wanted_ that but instead I—"

Her heart beat quickens—nervousness. She knows Bruce is her friend, but there's always a doubt and ...

"You're my friend. You're my _only_ friend," Bruce says quietly to the ceiling. It does little to reassure her. "That's why I'm asking _you._ Because I _trust_ you. The _last_ thing I want is to resent you for everything you've done—all you've worked for. You deserve the recognition you receive—I'm just … I guess I'm just a sad, pitiful guy who'd like a little recognition of his own."

Natasha frowns. "You're not sad—_or_ pitiful. You're Bruce Banner. You're _brilliant. _The only man in the _world_ who could control the Hulk the way you do. Every breath you _take_ a life is saved, Bruce—you just won't see it."

Bruce laughs, short and bitter. "And every time the Hulk wakes, a life is lost."

She sighs, closing her eyes. Eventually, she nods, palms her back pocket for her phone and turns away. "Then I've got a call to make."

* * *

She's thinking about her father again, for some reason.

Pym answers immediately and is more than eager to assist, arranging for them to access his government funded and highly secure facility outside of town. It's an hour drive and Bruce is choosing to spend it in silence so Natasha has only her thoughts for company and the soft lull of Happy's music.

She thinks about her father and there is no other warning but the sudden overwhelming presence of _Howard_—ominous, unsettling and confusing. It's been a long time since she's been hit with this particular brand of melancholia—if it can be called that. It might have something to do with the location of Pym's lab, built out of the skeletal remains of one of her old factories—well, one of _Howard's._ The road is familiar and she remembers sitting in the back seat of the limo, wedged between Obi and the door, with her father on Obi's other side. Her mother had been sick with the flu and Obi had convinced her father to allow her to join them on an inspection tour of the factory to keep her out of the house. Her father had been opposed to the idea, originally, but Obi usually got his way with him.

She remembers the feeling of excitement that battled with the very blatant knowledge that her presence was unwanted.

It makes her wonder about the present—makes her wonder if she is, once again, seen more as a nuisance than anything else. Bruce needs her help, but they both know where she stands on the subject of the Hulk and its growing to be a point of frustration for Bruce. His eagerness to take Pym's help …

It bothers her, if she is to be honest.

Logically, Pym is the best suited to assist them.

Obviously, her brain is no longer enough.

_She_ is no longer enough.

At the factory, Natasha remembers getting hurt—or perhaps causing some sort of disturbance. She doesn't remember the _what_, but she remembers Howard and remembers his scowl and Obi quietly looking away as she was scolded.

"_You are seven years old, Natasha! Stop acting like a baby!"_

It's just a memory now. It's not one that's accompanied by any particular sentiment. Just a memory. Something archived by her mind and classified as memorable. She doesn't remember whether she'd been angry or upset. She feels nothing, now.

It's just a memory.

* * *

The lab is nothing like the old factory, but for a moment, she sees it as if she were seven years old again and she catches a glimpse of Howard out of the corner of her eye where Bruce stands, waiting for her to approach the building first. She does so, at last, swallowing a feeling of nausea and keeping herself perfectly composed.

Bruce, of course, notices anyway. He murmurs quietly as they are led inside by some suits and a young woman Natasha recognizes as Miss van Dyne. "You're no good to me if you can't even remember to take care of _yourself."_

"I'm fine." Natasha replies shortly, frowning at the amount of armed guards the facility has warranted.

"You're not sleeping."

"_Actually_, I _have _been," Natasha smiles reassuringly. "Much better. Like a baby. Must be from having you around the Tower all the time. You're just so mellow."

"We're here," van Dyne declares suddenly, turning to them with a sweet smile.

Natasha spots Pym at once and grimaces. He's arms deep in some sort of cryo device; on his head is the strangest contraption, like a helmet.

"Ms. Stark! Doctor Banner! It's great to see you both! Thank you for coming!"

"Thank you for having us," Bruce says, holding his ground at Natasha's side. "We appreciate your help with this."

Pym grins, shaking his head as he untangles himself from the cryo container and removes the helmet. "No way," he laughs, flattening his disheveled hair before crossing the room to shake their hands. "Are you kidding? This is my honor! I'm totally stoked to be working with you, Doctor. You have no idea how exciting this is for me. You're _legendary."_

Natasha is not oblivious to the pointed way Pym refuses to meet her eyes. She's not sure what she's ever done to piss him off, but she's not unaccustomed to this sort of treatment.

"You two go on ahead. I've got to make a call," Natasha says with a charming smile, nodding her head towards Pym's primary station. Pym nods eagerly, taking Bruce's arm. Bruce grimaces and follows without looking back.

"So. You're Iron Woman, huh?"

Natasha pulls out her phone with a frown, blinking back at van Dyne with absolute bemusement. Nothing about her posture indicated she was open to conversation, but van Dyne seems perfectly oblivious. Natasha blinks again and looks back to her phone. "That's me."

"So you're, like, always remodeling your suits and stuff, yeah?"

Natasha pulls up her messages and begins forming a text. She doesn't look up at van Dyne again. " … Yes?"

"How come you never, like, try and make it a little … _sexier?_" The girl asks as if she's genuinely concerned by this fact. Natasha clears her throat and tries to keep her expression clear. She starts for Pyms workstation and van Dyne follows, matching her step with the staccato of her heels. "I mean, if I didn't already know it was you, you could totally pass for a dude in that thing."

Natasha nods, humming distractedly. "Oh? And what would you recommend?"

"Definitely more emphasis on the bust! For _sure!_ You could be sexy _and_ kick butt!"

Natasha stills, frowning. "Emphasis on the bust?" The image of her Iron Woman with a full rack comes to mind. She shakes her head and the thought. "That seems counterintuitive—given that the purpose of the suit is to _protect_ me."

"I don't get it," van Dyne frowns, canting her head at Natasha curiously. Natasha inhales slowly and smiles.

Before Natasha can respond, Pym says, "Jan, honey—don't bother Ms. Stark, please. We're trying to work."

* * *

A week passes and still no Loki. Bruce takes to sending her dubious looks and somehow Pepper is kept blissfully unawares. It's a week filled with work, both of the personal and business variety. Morgan is still loitering around the penthouse, but after the first couple of days he grows bored of feigning interest in her life and takes to the casinos with vigor. He joins her for nightly drinks, but that's about all they see each other.

She fails rather spectacularly at not thinking about what Loki is doing. It's occurred to her more than once that she doesn't know what all his exile to Earth entails and whether his full powers are still in effect. His time on Earth has not made him a saint. He isn't a changed man and she's not foolish enough to think he isn't just as likely to strike up another plan to attack the planet. She keeps him busy as best she can, but that's mostly out of convenience and her own cowardice. If she sits down and thinks about Loki long enough, she knows she's going to have to decide what to do with him. It's something she's manage to avoid for the last year but with all this shit suddenly prepping to take the fan, she realizes she's going to have to come to a decision about him.

It's easy to coexist with him and pretend not to notice that he could easily be biding his time to formulate another plan against her. He'd told her about Thanos—the only person she suspects he truly _fears_. Or respects. Or both. He'd told her about Thanos and his plan to steal a particular treasure from Odin's vault, but that's _Asgard_, Loki assures her. There's no reason Thanos would take interest in Earth. The humans have nothing he wants.

It's both reassuring and not.

There is obviously something going on and if it doesn't have to do with Thanos, then she's back at square one and she has _no_ idea what is going on. She doesn't want to be blindsided again by another possible war. She wants to be prepared but she doesn't know _how._ Most days it feels like she's scrambling for scraps—whatever information she can pick up from the wind—while trying to balance her life and work and now _Bruce._

She feels paper-thin and it's slowly driving her _mad._

Her temper is shorter and her mind is more absent. She feels _off_. Like she's not herself and too often it's like she's someone else looking in on the life of Natasha Stark.

* * *

The call comes in while she's sitting on the edge of the guest bed, sipping at a dark brown scotch. It's doing nothing to calm her mind, but her body feels delightfully dulled.

She glances at the caller ID and smiles, making herself comfortable against the headboard and tugging a pillow across her lap. "Wow. You're calling _me?_ This is a surprise."

"_I am … at an impasse."_

Natasha's eyebrows rise high on her brow and she turns her smile down to the tumbler in her other hand. "You're bored. You're calling me—because you're _bored._"

Loki sniffs lightly. "_How are things with Morgan?"_

She rolls her eyes. "You're really taking this 'Morgan' thing pretty seriously. Does Pepper _have_ something on you—or what's up?"

"_She's concerned about the sort of influence he'll have on you."_

She rolls her eyes again and brings the tumbler to her lips for another sip. "If Morgan had any influence he'd be a billionaire." She considers the liquor in her mouth for a moment before setting the tumbler aside on the bedside table. "But he's not, so he's broke and living mostly off what his dad will lend him. With an occasional donation from me, 'cause—you know. I'm such a nice gal."

"_I also don't like the idea of his repugnant self contaminating the Tower for much longer."_

Natasha scrunches her face in distaste, but her smile widens. "I should definitely be offended by that. Ass."

_"You sound tired. How long has it been since you've slept?"_

She's distracted from answering by an odd sound on his end of the line. "Where _are_ you, anyway? Or can I not ask? Is it super-secret? Does it involve Osborn?"

"_It _might_ involve Osborn. It's just a lead right now."_

Natasha grins. "You're so sexy when you talk detective to me, Doctor Watson."

Loki huffs, but he plays along. "_Does that make you Sherlock Holmes?"_

"Of course!" She licks her lips and tastes scotch. Her eyes flick to the laptop lying by the foot of her bed, now familiar footage cycling on the foremost window. "Oh—guess what? Guess what happened today?"

"_With you, it could honestly be anything. I'm not going to guess."_

"Fair. " She concedes and reaches forward to slide her laptop closer. "Parker's school was attacked."

_"Is this Parker, the new young assistant you hired to replace me?"_

Natasha pauses at his tone, eyes narrowing and smile in tugging at her lips. "Why? Are you jealous?"

"_A little. His school was attacked?"_

Natasha snorts and leans forward to pull up her file on the incident. "Yup. The guy's name was William Barker. He's a resident and _apparently_—he might be linked to that nuclear incident from last week."

_"With Octavius?"_

"Mm-hm. It doesn't look like he was an employee or anything, but there's a hospital report that claims he was found on the beach just a little down from the research facility."

"_I didn't realize the radiation had spread so far."_

Natasha nods to herself. "Me neither. I've got some people looking into it. They're collaborating with Phil and some of his men."

"_You're working with S.H.I.E.L.D.?" _Loki sounds surprised.

Natasha grimaces. "Well, with _Phil_. It seems more trouble than it's worth not to. I don't need them breathing down my neck as well if they think I'm somehow behind this." It goes unsaid that what she really means is if _Loki_ is somehow behind this, because as far as S.H.I.E.L.D. is concerned, it's all one and the same.

"_Who _else_ do you have breathing down your neck?"_

She frowns. "I don't know. Something—something is just _wrong._ I'll figure it out."

Loki is silent for a moment. She listens to the rustling sounds on the other end of the line and sits back with a frown, struggling to decipher the sounds. Then, "_Wait a minute. Wasn't Parker's school the same school that was attacked by that reptilian monster several months ago?"_

Natasha blinks—feels something strange twist in her stomach. " … Do you think it's a pattern?"

"_It just seems a little odd._"

Natasha nods. "I'll look into it." Her gaze drops to her laptop. "I got Parker to get me some footage of the scene. I didn't get everything I would have wanted because Rogers' caught him and made him leave. Thank _God_ it didn't occur to him to take his _phone_."

"_They called in Rogers? Where were _you_?"_

"With Bruce. Actually, Spiderman took care of Barker. Cap was just there to soak up the glory since—you know—Spiderman's like a vigilante or something and has apparently garnered a special spot on J.J.'s black list. Dunno what _that's _all about."

Loki is silent.

"Oh, uh. J.J. is that dick running the Bugle. He likes me, though. Kind've. Although I hear Osborn is interested in acquiring the paper, so I'm not sure how long they'll be printing glorious anecdotes of my epic heroics."

"_Epic?_ _The most action you've had came from my army."_

She rolls her eyes. "Wanna go for round two? I could take on your little army _any_ day."

"_There was nothing _little _about my army."_

"Uh-huh." She listens to his silence and thinks he might be smiling. After a minute, she says, "Oh, so Bruce introduced me to some cool shows on BBC America. I'm recording them. You're going to watch."

"_I didn't realize the man ever _watched_ telly. He always seems so … preoccupied."_

Natasha shrugs. "I guess he had some down time."

"_Hm_."

"What?"

"_Nothing."_

Natasha squints at the wall across from her. "Uh-huh. So—do you know when you're coming home?"

"_If this takes longer than a few days, I'll be back. I'm just … _looking_ right now. I'm following a very vague set of clues."_

"I really want to ask. But I know you're not going to tell me."

"_I might. If you asked nicely."_

"Just get back soon," she says, reaching out with a foot to close her laptop. She smiles. "Happy misses you."

"_Happy?"_

She bites her tongue on a laugh. "Yeah."

"_He can call."_

"It's not the same. You've got the sort of charming personality that's best appreciated in person."

She can definitely hear him grinning. "_Oh, you think _so,_ do you?"_

"Happy does. Pepper still hates you."

"_I have to do something about that. And you?"_

She makes a face at the wall. "Well, I just need my _coffee._ So. Hurry back. I'm dying on this Dunkin' Donut's shit."

"_Okay. Get some sleep._"

"I'm not tired."

_"You _are _tired. Where are you?"_

"My … " There's an odd hesitation on her tongue. She doesn't know what it is. "My room? Well, the guest room. Why?"

"_Of course._"

She feels uncomfortable—feels something … intimate and it makes her stomach churn unpleasantly. She deflects in the way she knows best. "I'm not wearing anything, in case you wanted to know."

A warm chuckle is her response. "_Bed. Now."_

She leers at the wall and sinks further into her bed. "My, my—aren't _you_ demanding?"

Loki doesn't say anything immediately and Natasha rolls onto her side, phone cradled against her ear.

Natasha moves her pillow from her lap to her head and reflects against the smooth, patternless wall. Her feet were lightly sore, an ache that ascended along the back of her calf, and her shoulders were stiff—stiffer than usual. There was a tightness in the upper curve of her spine that craved to be stretched and a pressure in her sinuses that started at her nose and flared out. She's only aware of these things because she is thinking about them, but now that she is, she notices the harsh taste in her mouth of too many coffees, scotch and not enough water; the itchiness of her eyes, and the way they seemed to fill their sockets.

She _is_ tired, she realizes. Very tired.

Maybe if she sleeps, things will be easier tomorrow.

_"Would you mind listening to me, just once?" _Loki says, strangely quiet.

"I always listen to you," Natasha murmurs. "I don't always do what you tell me to, but I listen. I'm going to bed." She says it like it was her idea; like this was her intention all along.

_"I'll see you in a couple of days."_

A couple days seems like eternity. She smiles but she doesn't feel it at all.

"Sure."

* * *

**End Notes**: Another long one. Sorry about this delay. The motherboard on my laptop burned out. I have no idea how because it's only four months old. I had to get it sent in and this chapter was trapped inside and I wasn't sure if I was going to get it back. I was too scared to turn on my laptop to pull all the files after plugging it in resulted in a smokey port. Fortunately, four months means that there wasn't too much of value on my laptop beyond just a bunch of fic ideas and C&V.

Even though I couldn't help these circumstances, I still feel compelled to apologize because I didn't know of a way to assure you guys that I wasn't dropping this story. I didn't have a laptop, but I had a journal. Every day without my laptop I spent writing in that journal. As a result, I've got two more chapters coming along shortly.

Did my best to edit this chapter but eventually I get sick of re-reading my own chapters so I know I didn't get every little mistake. Hopefully it's worth it. Next chapter won't be quite as long. This was just a monster. I don't know what happened.

COMMENTS ARE LOVED AND APPRECIATED! :)


	6. She's Like the Weather

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **This is emotion.

* * *

Chapter Six

_She's Like the Weather (Can't Hold Her Together)_

"Stark. Haven't seen _your_ mug in a while."

When the woman in question doesn't immediately respond—doesn't even twitch in their direction—Clint's gaze shifts to the agent at his side. Coulson is frowning, but the concern Clint knows he'll find in the man's eyes is hidden by the dark tint of his sunglasses. Clint turns back to Stark and considers calling out her name; something else catches his attention.

For the most part, Clint is happy to pretend Stark is the borderline-sociopathic genius everyone claims her to be. It makes their relationship simple and easy—he doesn't expect anything of her, and in return, she expects little of _him._ Stark is brains and money and Iron Woman and that's all Clint expects her to be. This isn't to say that Clint truly believes she's incapable of basic human emotion—basic human _weakness_—like every other know-it-all schmuck he's had the displeasure of dealing with. But it's too easy to lump Stark in with the likes of Banner and the Cap—something super-human and invulnerable. But unlike those two, Stark is _very_ breakable. Still a regular human.

And Clint knows this.

But he's still completely _stunned_ when he looks at her—really _looks_—and he can _see_ the chinks in her armor. She's slumped in front of her computer, a pinch of concentration between her brows; she has bruises under bloodshot eyes that is beyond the ability of makeup to conceal, her bone structure sharper and cheeks hollow.

To his left, the lab doors slide open and Banner steps inside, arms laden with equipment and notes. He blinks and offers an awkward smile when he sees them. Before he can return to his desk, however, Clint catches his arm and levels him with a serious frown.

"What's up with Stark?" Clint murmurs quietly, even though it's apparent Stark is completely oblivious to the outside world. "She looks like death."

Banner sighs wearily, shaking his head helplessly. "I … I don't know. She's been like this for a few days."

Clint feels himself become steadily more grim. "This have anything to do with our resident Godling?"

Banner shrugs; he looks uncomfortable and Clint doesn't know whether it's that Banner is just as distrustful of Loki, or if he feels honor-bound as Stark's friend not to speak out against the war criminal. Eventually, he says, "No, I—I actually don't think so. She just has a lot on her plate."

"I've never seen her so … burnt out," Clint admits after a moment.

Beside him, wordlessly, Coulson pulls out his phone and walks away to make a call.

Banner offers Clint a final nod then walks away to resume is work.

It was Clint's day off (well, he didn't have any immediate missions and that constituted as 'time off' for an agent of his caliber) and when he'd heard that Stark and Banner were working with Pym at one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s facilities, he'd been bored and curious enough to join Coulson on his inspection. He'd also wanted to offer Stark a word of advice on the subject of Loki—Hill's displeasure with Stark was making the woman a neurotic mess. She was seeking government sanctions to pursue Stark and it was only Fury that was keeping Hill in check. Clint didn't want to know why Fury was backing Stark on this but he could guess that Fury was not be opposed to having another God on his side (well, the 'good' side, since Stark would relinquish her fortune before forming another alliance with Fury). That is, assuming Stark had any control over the former terrorist.

Finding Stark like this leaves him feeling strangely sobered and oddly disappointed. When he gets a text from Hill regarding his next assignment, he leaves the lab feeling relieved to escape the unusual solemnity.

* * *

Loki checks in every night but it's been nearly two weeks and Natasha was finding it highly inconvenient not to have him around. Every now and then she'll get a text that simply says: **Sleep today?** She's entertained enough by the idea of him texting that she isn't too upset with him for his meddling. It's enough that she has Bruce and Pepper harping at her about taking it easy, but it's not like she can just _turn off_ her brain.

She gets an actual phone call, however, on Thursday.

"_I didn't realize I was living with a _child."

"'Hello' to you, too. Ass." Bruce glances over his shoulder at her, frowning, and she explains with a half-smile, "It's Loki."

Bruce gets a strange look on his face, but it's not necessarily the usual annoyance that colors his expression at the mention of the Trickster.

"_I got a call from Agent Coulson."_

She's surprised enough that she has to pause her work and step back from her station. "Why?" she asks, interested. Vaguely, she thinks she remembers seeing Coulson earlier today—or was it earlier this week?

"_I'm not asking anymore, Natasha. You need to _go home_ and get into bed and _sleep."

"Oh, am I working for _you_, now?" Like a switch, she feels her temper flare.

"_I am not hanging up until you go to home."_

"Then_ I'll_ just—"

"_And I don't need a phone to speak with you. The phone call was a courtesy."_

It's not a threat. Natasha knows that in this instance, Loki could even enchant her to do his bidding and Pepper and Bruce wouldn't even put up a fuss.

With a furious scowl, Natasha rips off her lab coat and throws it over her station. She ignores Bruce's worried look and storms out of the room.

* * *

She goes home but she doesn't go to bed. Loki stays out of her head, however, seemingly pleased that she'd listened and left the lab. Also, there is an unspoken agreement between them that he isn't permitted inside her head short of a planet-wide apocalypse. Every now and then she'll initiate a thought that he'll catch, as if he's constantly tuned in to her frequency, and he might respond, but he doesn't abuse the privilege. He certainly wouldn't dare intruding on her thoughts when he knows she's pissed off.

In her office, several drinks later with her feet propped up on her desk and her tie undone, she's still steaming from Loki's interference—it's not like he's even _here_. Irrationally, she's completely livid—she wants to _rage_ but she's too tired to do much more than lock herself away with her liquor cabinet. She forgoes scotch or brandy for a martini. In all her life, she's never had a Manhattan, but her hands find the ingredients and she pours herself drink after drink after drink.

She doesn't savor the taste in her mouth, sits heavily in her armchair and stares ahead of herself sightlessly—thinks she sees an afterimage of her mother daintily sipping Manhattans in the middle of her office, dancing bonelessly to nonexistent music. Eventually, she gives up mixing the Manhattans and pulls the whiskey bottle to her lap, plucking cherries from the little bowl.

There's a cherry pit stuck in her throat when she blinks and her mother is still there, dancing artlessly in the middle of Natasha's office.

Natasha clears her throat. " … Mom?"

Maria doesn't falter, a slender arm stretched out in front of her, martini glass carelessly held between her fingers. She twists and turns her body so her creamy dress flares out around her legs, flowing like waves. Her eyes are clouded with liquor and she doesn't see Natasha (she never sees Natasha).

Natasha snorts, self-deprecating smirk twisting her lips as she brings the mouth of the whiskey bottle to her lips. She murmurs against it, tone dark, "I'm drunk. You're drunk. Must be a party."

"Naddie, sweetheart. Dance with me. Dance with mommy," Maria's soft, breathless voice tickles Natasha's ears and makes her heart constrict.

"Not much for dancing," Natasha mutters, pulling a cherry into her mouth and flicking away the stem, eyes on her mother's memory. "Not unless it's going to get me laid."

"What?"

Natasha blinks and her mother is gone. Standing in front of her is Morgan and he's scowling at her with evident disgust.

"Are you _drunk_? It's the middle of the _day_."

Natasha rolls her eyes, feels incredibly liquid and smiles unkindly. "I'm not _that_ drunk."

"You were talking to yourself." Morgan deadpans, unimpressed.

"I was talking to my _mom_," Natasha argues, reasonably.

Morgan blinks—and then he's across the room and tugging the whiskey from her hand before Natasha can offer protest. "Yes, you're not drunk at all. Talking to your dead mother is _completely_ natural."

Natasha can't find it in herself to argue as she watches Morgan whisk her liquor away. She feels warm and content and she's glad for Morgan because she doesn't think she wants to talk to her mom today. Morgan says something else, frowning—Natasha doesn't listen. She just smiles and watches him clear her mess and lock her liquor cabinet and then wander off.

When he's gone, she's still grinning to herself.

* * *

The planet is quiet—a solitary rock in a distant corner of space. Its population barely numbers in the millions; an insect compared to the Earth.

Loki's body manifests out of swirls of charged energy and misty magic into dead silence. Idly, he holds out a hand; the remnants of his magic conform around his palm and then his fingers are curling around the materialized weight of his phone. He brushes a thumb across the screen and it comes to life—he has three missed messages and five new texts. Most of them are from Pepper. One is from Banner.

He scowls, sharp eyes darting about his surroundings for any unwanted company as he brings his phone to his ear and makes another call. This was growing to be tedious.

Natasha's phone rings out but she doesn't answer. Loki considers searching for her thoughts but the distance between them is too great. It's only fortunate that she hadn't called his bluff; the most he could do at this point is use his magic to amplify Natasha's technology so he could use his phone to reach her (and so Pepper and Happy and a whole litany of other humans could have access to him as _well_, apparently). Loki vanishes the phone without calling again, patience thin. It's baffling that the humans would seek him out to enlist him in coercing Natasha to heed their concerns. She's not a child and doesn't appreciate being treated as one, nor is it Loki's responsibility to hold her hand and treat her like an invalid. She's perfectly capable of handling herself—and he's _busy._

His temper has grown short over the last two weeks of searching and finding _nothing._ Frequently, he's considered the possibility that Karnilla had deceived him—and if this is the case, he has every intention of proving to her that, great sorceress or no, Loki was not to be trifled with. He was no longer a child in the court of Asgard—no longer the little princeling often ignored for the sake of the mighty Thor. He was _Loki_, and he was mighty in his own right.

As Loki explores the planet, he finds little evidence that the one he seeks is present.

And then, just as abruptly as he hadn't—Loki _feels_ the otherworldly presence like a tingling under his flesh.

The moment he senses the other's presence, it seems the other senses Loki, for at once he finds a shadow fall over him. When Loki looks skywards, a man hovers above him, standing upon a long narrow construct, not unlike a board. The man and his board appear to be of one material—his flesh seems solid, but he navigates his board fluidly, like mercury, until he and Loki are at eye level. Loki studies the man's face and sees his own reflected on the surface of the man's mirror-like flesh.

"My, my, my—a planet for the taking." Loki's grin is vicious and sharp. "Norrin Radd. It is my honor to meet your acquaintance."

* * *

Natasha showers off the sweat and grime and stench of alcohol while she tries to hold on to the last remnants of her buzz. The alcohol did little to help her sleep and her mind is thrumming with excess energy; her body struggles to keep up and she barely manages to dress herself without faceplanting on the bathroom tile. She dresses as if for work even though she has no intention of heading into the office. Somehow, the tailored suit feels more comfortable today than a pair of raggy jeans and a t-shirt. She can't even look herself in the mirror; she slicks back her hair in Loki's familiar style to keep it from making her look more skeletal than she already does.

Wandering back into her office, she knows better than to pour herself another drink. She doesn't want to think about work—doesn't want to think about helping Bruce cure himself of the Hulk or about the fact that she's willingly working alongside S.H.I.E.L.D. at the expense of her pride. It eats away at her with every passing second and every condescending little smirk Pym throws her way. These last few days have been spent alternating between irritation for Pym and begrudging respect. The man is not the _total_ imbecile she'd believed him to be. She can't stand the guy, but his brain is acceptable company so she tolerates the rest for the sake of the work that they're doing.

She wonders if Bruce has made her soft when even Jan van Dyne's company isn't totally abhorrent.

Rifling through her desk, she finds that most of the files stowed away belong to Pepper. They're mostly regarding the company, including a copy of Loki's contract with Stark Industries under his original alias, Lucas Olson. She sets the contract aside, folding it in halves then slipping it into the inner breast pocket of her suit jacket. At the very bottom of one drawer she finds an unfamiliar tablet.

Curious, she sits back in her armchair and pulls the tablet onto the desk, unfolding the flap behind the tablet to make it stand. She brings it to life and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logo is the first thing she sees. Confused, she enters her Consultant login and is surprised when she is inundated with what seems like a complete history and evaluation on one Steven Rogers, far more cohesive than anything she has on file. Most of this stuff she shouldn't have access to (not to say she _couldn't_ get access to it). The tablet's airport is also disabled—which makes sense, given how sensitive this information is. Leaving the tablet totally offline makes it less susceptible to hacking.

She sifts through the files for several hours, until she comes to one that's been flagged by a **P. Coulson**. Only then, and it takes her awhile to wrack her brain for this, does she remember Coulson coming to her quite some time ago with a request to look into the Cap for him. That promise feels like forever ago and Natasha frowns, settling herself more comfortably in her armchair to read.

* * *

"I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know of me, but I do not know of _you."_

Loki's grin smooths out to a smile. "I am Loki."

It's difficult to discern Norrin Radd's expression, his skin is so reflective that it's hard for Loki not to focus on his own eyes staring back at him; trying to keep the man's gaze is more trouble than it's worth. After a moment, Radd says with realization, "Odinson. You are Loki of Asgard, son of Odin, brother of Thor. I know of you, now."

Loki does not allow the man's words to affect him. He allows the slight to pass because Radd does not know that to utter the name of the All-Father before him is taboo.

"I am _Loki_," he corrects the other gently.

Curious, Radd cants his head and studies Loki for another long moment.

Then, "And what is it that you seek, _Loki. _This world holds nothing that an Asgardian should find valuable."

Loki smiles.

And then, without a warning, his scepter materializes in his hands, the crystal at its head burning brightly with his own magic. He thrusts it forward, releasing a pulse of energy so powerful it blasts Norrin Radd clear off his board and into the dark forests of spindly, leafless trees.

"You are powerful, Norrin Radd," Loki calls out casually, twirling his scepter idly. "You wield the power cosmic, allowing you to absorb and manipulate the ambient energies of the universe. With it, there is almost nothing you cannot do."

Loki stops beside the board where it still hovers a foot off the ground, as if awaiting the call of its master. Loki smirks, tapping the head of the scepter against the edge of the board, feeling a familiar thrill well up inside him. Unlike Thor, who thrives in battle and thrills with the spilling of his enemies' blood, Loki's heart calls to conflict—it is not in victory or in defeat where he finds pleasure, but in the chaos war brings. He is not his daughter—has no need for the dead lest they be useful. It is schemes and lies and machinations that feed him—he is Loki, after all, God of Chaos and Mischief.

"I am curious, then," Loki goes on, eyes searching the black shadows of the forest, teasing smile on his lips. "How do your godly powers match up against the might of a _real_ God?"

Like Mjolnir, yet quicker than his eye can read, the silver board is gone, presumably called by its master, sweeping past with such incredible speed that Loki feels the pull of its momentum tug at his body. In a second, Radd is once more upon his board, gliding casually back into the clearing.

"I have no desire to fight you. I know your kind. I can feel your hunger and sense your hubris," Radd speaks quietly, grim. "I am not a God. I have never created life. But I have _lived._ It is enough to have my freedom; my time of servitude is done. I do not know why you have sought me, Asgardian, but I will not play your games, nor shall I allow myself to become your pawn. Leave now, in peace."

Loki laughs because he has not heard such sentimental drivel since his last visit to Asgard. His response is immediate, power channeling to his scepter. He releases it in a burst—but this time Radd is prepared. He is a blur of movement, dodging every consecutive blast Loki sends his way. The charges Loki throws at him are low level at best, not even a fraction of the strength he'd issued behind that first attack. They never connect with Radd, but it gives Loki time to quietly chant his spell.

Suddenly, the gravity of the world appears to amplify by an incredible degree. The forest begins to shrink as the pressure weighs the trunks until they are flush to the ground. Radd comes to a sudden halt—but Loki doesn't give him time to adjust, knowing it is well within his capabilities. The spell is cast again and the planet shudders under his feet with the severity of the pressure.

While he has the other's attention, Loki smiles. "Either you _will _join me—or you shall stand and bear witness while I lay waste to this world you've deemed so precious."

It is only then that Radd allows anger to color his words. "There are _innocent _souls—!"

"I shall decimate every last one of them." Loki says simply as the planet quakes under his feet. "It is your choice."

* * *

It's late when he comes home from his jog so he's not expecting any company—not that he gets many visitors besides the Director and Agent Coulson.

The _last_ person he'd expected to find waiting outside his door is _Natasha Stark._

Steve walks forward carefully, frowning as he approaches the woman. She has her back to his door, eyes closed and head tipped back, resting against the door. Her arms are crossed and he can't read any hostility in her posture, but he's also been wrong about her before. She's dressed in a tailored dark blue pinstripe suit, Nikes and black tie—so out of place in the dirty and graffiti-ed hallway of his apartment building. He studies her profile for a long time, half expecting to blink and have her replaced with her equally as aggressive counterpart, Iron Woman.

Suddenly, Stark's eyes flutter and blink open, lips parting for a soundless exhale. She stares at the wall across from her, her expression completely slack and empty of pretenses. Then, her eyes cut to the right and she sees him. He's only aware of it then as he watches her step away from the door to face him—and it's like a wall comes down between them and the weariness disappears from her eyes and her lips twist into an ironic smirk that she wears like armor.

"Captain," she greets him, looking just as confident as ever.

"Stark," he frowns, fishing his keys from his gym shorts a stepping past her to unlock the door. "The world's not coming to an end, is it?"

Behind him he hears her quiet chuckle. "No, no. Nothing like that. Not as far as I know." He hears her follow him inside the apartment without waiting for invitation. As he switches on the lights, she says, "I would have let myself in, but I'm not used to doors that won't listen to my commands. Pick-locking, if you can believe, is not actually in my repertoire."

Steve throws her a dubious look over his shoulder, not sure whether she is making a joke. "That's … very unsettling, Ms. Stark. Doors shouldn't need to be complicated."

Stark shrugs. "Unless you've got something to hide."

"I don't have anything to hide," Steve replies, closing the door behind her.

Stark smiles. "Well." She doesn't add anything else.

Steve takes a moment to study her, watching her do the same. If he hadn't seen the bone-weariness in her eyes the seconds before she'd shuttered it all away, he doesn't think he'd be able to spot it now. It's never occurred to him that Stark's arrogance could be a facade. Of course, he knows it's impossible for someone to be that much of an … _irritant_ all the time. It would require too much effort. Still, Stark has always had a way of getting under his skin and it's almost blinding—removing him of his composure and stripping him of his patience. She doesn't give anyone a chance to look beyond what she wants you to see and you get so caught up trying just to _keep up_ that even Steve had forgotten to _look. _

He's seen it now, however, and he can't forget.

He suddenly doesn't remember what the standard procedure for them is. Feels wrong letting them slip back to their casual animosity.

Clearing his throat, he nods his head in the direction of his kitchenette. "I … don't have any beer or anything like that."

Stark's smirk returns; it's neither challenging nor sympathetic. "Why would you? Your metabolism would break it down before your body got the chance to do anything fun with it."

"Exactly." Steve waits until Stark gestures towards the kitchenette as if to say, '_you first'_, before turning to head for his fridge. "I've got Coke and I've got water, though."

"Coke's fine."

He grabs two glass bottles from the fridge then joins her where she's made herself comfortable at the small kitchen table. She still looks as out of place in the room, but somehow she seems just as comfortable in her skin as ever. Steve envies her, for a bit, then takes a seat, popping the tabs on both bottles before sliding one across the table for her.

Her hand curls around the base of the bottle, eyes on the dark liquid. She doesn't look up when she says, "It's a nice place you've got. Cute."

Steve watches her narrowly—feels a little out of place inside his own apartment. Stark has an arm on the table and she's scratching a finger over a bump in the pattern of his tablecloth. She seems so still, even while fidgeting—so subdued. It's unsettling.

"Well," Steve says after almost too long a pause. "It's no palace in the sky, but it's enough. For me." She doesn't acknowledge him at all, enthralled by the tablecloth. Steve clears his throat again. "How's work?"

That's not what he wants to ask and only her eyes dart up, quickly, single brow arched incredulously and smirk stretching mischievously on her lips.

"Work's _good_," she replies playfully—knowingly. "How's life? Adjusting well?"

"Enough. I don't get out too much," Steve admits, which only earns him a minor hum of acknowledgment. Her eyes drop to the table again and if it weren't for her total look of calm, he'd think she was nervous. Instead, she almost seems content with making small talk.

"Did you ever sign Phil's cards?" She's wonders casually.

Steve frowns. "I did."

Another smile flits across her lips, brief. "That was nice of you."

Steve disagrees with a grimace. "It's weird."

She shrugs, hand stilling as she looks up. "You get used to it."

Steve snorts, shaking his head. "Of _course _you have trading cards of yourself."

She cants her head and grins. "And _action figures_, and _Barbie dolls_, and _cartoons._ Both Natasha Stark and Iron Woman are _quite_ the commodity."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Steve huffs, finally finding an opportunity to voice his opinion to someone who could understand. "Having all these people—strangers—taking pictures of you everywhere you go? Writing facetious articles in their magazines and fictitious stories in the news? It's like—you're not even a _person_ to them. Just some face and a body and a name. It's—it's _terrible."_

Stark smiles. "It's money." Her hand flattens on the table and her Coke is still untouched; he sees her expression soften. "And no, it doesn't bother me. I grew up with this. Natasha Stark and Iron Woman? They're just brand names. I _am_ just a face. I'm the style of my hair and the clothes that I wear. I'm where I go for dinner and the kind of music I listen to and the cars I drive and the houses I own."

"How can you stand it?"

She laughs. "Don't let it get to you. Just do your thing. You'll be fine. You're Captain America. Everyone will always love you."

That's not exactly what he wants to hear. It doesn't help him at all but at the very least it gives him a little bit of an insight into Stark's mind. He thinks it could be easy to take her words as shallow, but he recognizes them for what they are. Stark knows who she is. She knows how much influence she has and the kind of responsibility that carries, whether she wants it or not.

Stark sits back, stretching her spine, eyes wandering around his little apartment with open interest. They settle on something to his right and she blinks, standing suddenly.

"This is … " She steps quietly to his fridge and Steve follows her with his eyes. He notices too late what she's referring to after she's already plucked it from the fridge and is bringing it back with her. He sees only the back of the sheet of notebook paper but he knows at once what it is. He sits up straighter, eyes on her face, which seems to harbor an expression of genuine surprise.

She doesn't sit, staring down at the paper in her hands. When she doesn't say anything else, he offers, "It's Stark Tower. Before ..."

Well, just _before._

There's no word to describe what happened a year ago with the Chitauri—with the Avengers and Loki and the Cube. There is no one word for it.

Except maybe _nightmare._

"This is really good," Stark says quietly, honestly. "I didn't know you drew."

_There's a lot you don't know_, Steve thinks, but he doesn't dwell on it.

"Huh," she huffs after a moment, blinking. She lowers the page to her side and looks around, taking in the apartment with renewed interest. It's still embarrassingly vacant; most of what Stark had returned to him was still in boxes, stuffed in his bedroom where he hadn't had the courage to wade through the memories.

She walks away, heading for the living room. Steve stands to follow, feeling his discomfort return. She doesn't say anything as she passes each piece of furniture, running a hand over everything as if by touch she could read the history of every object. Steve watches her from the middle of his living room with an odd feeling of anticipation.

Finally, she turns to look at him, standing with her back to the window. She's frowning and her eyes are piercing when they meet his. "I … I don't know where to start."

He's not sure what she's talking about or where this is going, but he says, "The beginning? Seems like a good place."

"Yeah?" She smiles, but it's faltering—uncertain. "Not—not for me." She looks away, taking interest with his bookshelf, then his two-seater. This time, when she speaks, she does not quite succeed when she tries to sound casual. "How have you been sleeping?"

Steve can't help that his eyes alternate between studying her face, then taking in the rest of her. He frowns and says carefully, " … I think I should be asking _you_ that. If you don't mind? You're—you seem like you haven't been getting much rest of your own."

Her lips press firmly together and she nods, says, "So—not good, then," as if he'd answered her question, completely ignoring his.

"Do you always deflect personal questions like this?" Steve asks, aware of his own discomfort to have her taking any sort of interest in him beyond their conflicting opinions on the field. He sighs. "Look, I did enough sleeping when I was under the ice."

She pulls out her phone and her expression becomes unreadable. Quietly, her thumb brushing patterns across the screen of her phone while her eyes follow the contours of his ugly sofa, she murmurs, "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. You know what that is, obviously."

His blood runs cold. There's lead in his belly and a tension in his muscles, like he's preparing for battle.

Stark continues, holding out her phone under her nose to read whatever is on the display. "You passed every physical test that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave you when you woke up. Psychologically, though … " Her thumb brushes across the screen again and then he can tell that she's reading when she says, "'Patient exhibits symptoms typical of PTSD. Displays avoidance and hyper-awareness … Feelings of strong guilt … Reclusive … High tension … Difficulty sleeping … _Unstable'._" She looks up and meets his eyes, pinning him. "_'_Conclusively: unfit for duty'."

Steve hears his tone go cold. "Where did you get that?"

She pockets her phone and shrugs, face carefully neutral. "It doesn't matter where I got it. I have it."

In an instant, whatever ideas Steve might have had for where this conversation would go are shattered. There's just indignant _rage_ and a burned _pride_. He feels like a _fool_ for thinking she might have shared his longing to simply set aside their differences and start over—start fresh. It's been an ache in his heart that is loneliness and grief and a need for companionship—for _friendship._

Steve takes a step forward—then stops himself. Stiffly, he mutters, "Ms. Stark, I think you should go."

But Stark doesn't move. Tonelessly, she observes, "Avoidance issues."

Steve's fists curl—it's his only warning. "Now."

There's something strange in her tone when she says, "I'm not actually here to _antagonize _you, Rogers. I'm only here to _talk." _

He recognizes his own words and is stunned that she'd found a way to twist them into something that sounded so sinister.

Steve glares. "Bullshit. Just—_bullshit._" She frowns but Steve feels like he's going to be sick. In all his life, he has never known so _horrible_ and _spiteful_ a person. "Get the _hell_ out."

"Why? You don't like to hear the truth?" She looks so calm—is looking at him like he's _nothing_. Like she sees through him and it _burns._

Not even pinned and beaten in the alleys of Brooklyn had he ever feel so_ insignificant_

"You're a _bully_, Natasha Stark." Steve snaps, frustration clawing at his gut. "You twist _everything_—you twist everything that I _say!_ Everything that I _do!_ You treat me like I'm the _enemy_! You hold more regard for a _criminal_ than you do for me—"

"Right, right," Stark laughs, stalking forward to crowd into his space. "I forgot. You're Mr. _Perfect._ You're Captain America. You can't do any wrong. You're just—"

"Get _out._"

"—a _puppet._ You're a _puppet."_

Something else inside of him seems to twists and he lashes out to take her arm and drag her towards the door. If she won't leave, he can _remove_ her, but if she stays any longer he can't be held accountable for what he says. There's an ugly feeling spreading out from his chest and it's a sickness—the blackest, darkest emotions he's never felt. It's like losing Bucky—like losing _Peggy_—it's the sudden reminder that he's _alone_ and he's unwelcome and no one _cares_. Nobody cares that he's seventy years away from home—it doesn't matter because nobody gives a _damn_ about Steve Rogers as long as Captain America is there to save the day.

Stark is suddenly violent, twisting to pull away from his hold. She shoves and punches at his chest and his arms when he doesn't immediately release her. "Let _go_ of me! Let _go _of me, you fucking _jerk!_ Let _go!"_

He releases her immediately and she stumbles, falling back against the wall hard enough that the window shudders.

She sneers, "Yeah, you're _so_ stable!"

Steve snaps—feels a hot flash of anger strike him and light him up from the inside. "You think you have anything to say to me, you _pampered punk! _You think you have any right to _judge_ me? You don't _know_ me, Stark! You don't know the _first thing_ about me!_"_

Stark has the audacity to look both exasperated and annoyed, rolling her eyes. She holds her ground, righting herself and smoothing down her suit jacket. "Whatever. I'm not here for _you. _There are certain concerned parties who don't think you're _ready_ to be playing Fury's lapdog. I'm just here to—"

"Lapdog. _Lapdog!" _Steve laughs, "It's always been a joke to you, hasn't it? I am just a _joke _to you! Well, I'm _sorry_ if you can't get behind the idea of—"

"I just don't get why you're so eager to get into bed with the assholes who created your _leash!"_

Steve explodes, shouting, "I _chose_ this! This was _my_ choice—"

"You _chose_ to be a _puppet?!" _Stark sneers nastily.

She looks furious but what he's feeling isn't merely rage—it's a number of other emotions that he doesn't have the patience to sift through right now. He moves forward, pointing a finger directly at the faint blue glow of the arc-reactor he can see under her clothing. He speaks through gritted teeth and feels all his frustration and all his anger channeled into words. He puts as much emotion behind every word as he would a physical blow and he watches the reaction of his verbal assault in the stiffening of her expression:

"Don't _lecture_ mefor being a good soldier and following my orders when all I am doing is my _job_! I _do_ my part! I'm Captain America! I was _made _to serve so don't _act_ like you're _any_ different from Fury or the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. because all you see when you look at me is a shield and a '_spangly outfit'_."

Stark looks stunned and finally—_finally_—he sees his words wipe the self-righteous smugness from her face. He doesn't take pleasure in the way her eyes widen with shock, her mouth hanging open—speechless. She looks as breathless as he feels, his chest heaving as if he's been in a great struggle. A part of him knows he's been avoiding the woman because of _this_—because these feelings and these thoughts have been stewing inside him from the moment they met and he hates the how much he's craved this release. It isn't fair that Stark had judged him before they'd ever met—had let the stories of his past mold her opinion of him without ever allowing him a chance to show her who he was. She'd assumed everything about him based on a few pages in her history books and thought she knew everything there was to know about him.

He thinks about the surprise in her eyes and her voice when she'd studied his drawing of her Tower and realizes that what he feels is … disappointment.

He's disappointed with himself. With her. With … everything.

He wants to go _home._

"Tell me I'm wrong!" He shouts directly into her face; he doesn't step off even when he sees her cringe and edge back until her back is flush with the wall. Steve follows her and ignores the warning in the back of his mind. His misery blinds him and his hands are gripping her shoulders so she can't escape—needs this release of words because he thinks he'd implode otherwise—and it's everything he can do not to shake her until she _listens_. "Tell me you've never thought of me as anything other than some _story_ your father used to feed to you before _bedtime_. I am _not_ a _book, _Stark! I am _not_ something you can study and learn about in _class_! I am a _person—_but you're too wrapped up in yourself and what _you_ think and—you're always right, is that it, Stark? You _have _to be right and that's one thing you and your father have in common but you don't know me and you look at me like I'm—"

"Oh, yeah, _tell_ me about my _father!_" Natasha shouts up at him, spittle flying and her eyes blazing with _loathing._ "Tell me about how great of a man he was and how you two were such _great_ friends! You fucking piece of shit—don't you fucking _talk_ to me about my father! Don't you _ever_—"

"Howard was a _great_ man. You don't _deserve_ someone like him and if he'd been _my_ father—"

"Oh my God! Oh my fucking _God!_ Yeah! Yes! Of _course!_" He feels her trembling under his hands but he's too angry to step back and her hands have latched onto the front of his shirt like she wants to push him away or keep him in place—like she's forgotten completely—and then she's _screaming: _"Well he _wasn't_ your father! He was _mine! _He was _my_ dad, you sunnofabitch—he was _mine!"_

"What are you _talking_ about?" Steve snaps, pressing her shoulders harder against the wall. "You're _insane!_ I don't know _what_ you think I've done or why you seem to hate me—"

"_Hate_ you?" She sneers. "Rogers, you're not even worth my _breath. _I don't _hate_ you. I don't hate you because you're not _worth_ hating, you piece of _shit_. Don't be so full of yourself, you are _nothing._"

Steve sees red—feels _hot_—and then his hand is balled into a fist and it's drawn back and _moving_ and his brain and all his instincts are suddenly screaming and blaring—Stark doesn't even have a chance to be surprised.

His fist crushes the wall next to her ear and she inhales sharply, stilling and eyes shooting wide open—but she doesn't scream; she doesn't make a sound and she doesn't move, her hands still curled around his shirt.

Steve feels himself rage. He wants to _scream_—he wants to _scream_ and shout and he wants to find her weakness and _hurt_ her like she's hurts him. Stark doesn't care—she doesn't hold back punches—so why should _he?_

Stark's chest is heaving, as breathless as he feels. Her cheeks are flushed with emotion and there's a startling glistening in her eyes—

And then his anger is gone, doused with the stunning realization of what he'd almost _done_—what Stark was _capable _of bringing out in him. He would _never_ lay a hand on a woman against her will and he would _never_ strike one—but his fist sits burrowed in the wall, angled millimeters from Stark's head, concrete dusting his arm and her suit.

Stark is staring at him without any fear and she has no clever retort or sardonic quip. There's something new and bright in her eyes and Steve doesn't want to face it.

He tugs his fist free and draws away, turning his back to her and bowing his head in shame.

"You can go_."_

* * *

He doesn't expect the man to come along without a fight. If he had, it would have been too disappointing.

Norrin Radd lashes out in righteous fury, tightly compressed spheres of energy striking every clone Loki creates to distract him. Then, for only a second, he is gone and Loki is scanning the area for his whereabouts—when an impossible weight crushes against his back and sends him flying forward into the shuddering earth. Loki catches himself on hands and knees and he whips his head over his shoulder with a sneer. Radd hovers several feet behind him on his board, silvery skin reflecting the twin spheres of cosmic energy he's gathering in his hands. Loki stands and turns to face him sharply, heavy cape snapping behind him.

And then, the world underneath him shifts—and still standing, he notices himself drop several inches as the earth underneath him begins to sink. Radd notices this as well and the spheres of energy dissipate in an instant.

"Stop this! These creatures have done you no wrong! It's genocide!" Radd pleads.

Loki laughs, swiping his tongue over his lower lip and tasting a hint of blood. "Well, if you want me to spare them, you know what to do."

Radd's silence is filled with tension; he navigates his board in short circles around Loki as if pacing.

Loki smiles charmingly, feigning a tone of sympathy without bothering to hide the wickedness from his eyes. "I am not unkind. Should you assist me, I would not only spare your planet, but I would grant you … _great_ power."

"I have no _need_ for power."

"You have need for _this._" Loki does not elaborate, letting his grin and his words tease the man's weakness. Norrin Radd's values his freedom—and all such men share a similar fault: curiosity.

Quietly, hesitantly, Norrin Radd lowers himself to the ground, bowing his head.

Loki's grin widens and the convulsions of the planet cease—the enchantments broken. "There is something you must collect," Loki says.

"You've come all this way to ask me to … _fetch_ something?"

Loki hums, dissolving his scepter in a mist of magic. "It's a very important something. You'll understand soon enough."

"What is this object that I must collect, Asgardian?"

Loki's body has begun to disappear into the nothing between spaces as he says, "You must travel to the Worldship, Taa II. It should be difficult to miss, for it engulfs the entirety of the former Archeopian System. There, you will find a _device …_"

* * *

It's dark in the bedroom but Natasha can't sleep.

She lays in bed in an old t-shirt and sweats, curled on her side, hugging a pillow to her chest and face buried into the soft silk of the pillowcase. The wall of windows is a view of the city, some floors underneath the penthouse and so instead of feeling like she could be on top of the world, she feels trapped. The bodies of the buildings outside the windows are the pillars of her cage; the room is too small and the city is too quiet. The only light comes from the city and it's dull and cold and lifeless.

She can't stop thinking.

That's usually the problem, but it's usually schematics and diagrams keeping her up at night.

Tonight … tonight it's white noise. She can't stop thinking—but there are too many thoughts and she's too tired and too … _something._ None of her thoughts make any sense and she feels herself on the verge of something like panic.

The lights flick on, suddenly, but Natasha doesn't look away from the window, blinking slowly.

"Really?"

She feels numb. But it's not enough. There's a tickle of something vulnerable and painful burrowed deeply inside of her. It's new and it's making itself at home and Natasha is too scared to tell it to go away.

Behind her, she feels the bed sink. Slowly, she rolls herself onto her back, pillow still clutched tightly in her arms. It takes too much energy to will herself to _look_ at something—instead of _staring_ at nothing—and when her eyes slide across the ceiling and find green she exhales quietly.

Loki is frowning, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down. He's wearing a suit, again, though she knows he always wears his Asgardian armor when he's off doing … whatever. There's a cut on his lower lip and he smells oddly of burnt ozone.

Natasha blinks and looks to the ceiling.

"I take it Morgan is still here?" Loki says after a moment, irritably. "This is ridiculous. Is that why you haven't been sleeping? Because you don't have a room?"

_Rogers._

Rogers …

She's scared. She doesn't understand it but her heart is practically vibrating and her lungs are exhausted and there's a lump in her throat and it _feels_ like fear. Like anxiety and fear and anger and everything all at once. There's so much and she thinks she's going to be sick so she keeps absolutely still and doesn't dare open her mouth.

Loki is still talking but she's stopped listening. An unexpected wave of absolute _exhaustion_ falls over her like a stifling blanket. She rolls onto her side, back to the room, and closes her eyes to the city.

She sleeps.

* * *

**End Notes: **Shorter chapter. Not the shortest, though. I remember when chapters were between 1 and 3k.

Natasha doesn't deal well with emotions, clearly. Not in excess. If this chapter was confusing, well, just stayed tuned.

Comment about Loki: in the Marvel Universe Loki makes a unique transformation from being merely the God of Mischief to being the God of Evil, which is a title he bestows upon himself. It's evidence to how far he's fallen into darkness over the course of his storyline since his origins. The Loki of this story, of this universe, and I believe in the movie-verse, is still just Loki, God of Mischief. He's not quite beyond redemption—not the God of Evil, just yet.

Next chapter won't be out quite as quickly, but hopefully by the end of this weekend.


	7. She Wants To Be Alone

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Dinner and late night crime-fighting.

* * *

Chapter Seven:

[Part I]

_She Wants To Be Alone and Together With You_

She wakes slowly, like swimming through warm waters towards the circle of light in the sky—gradual and with the knowledge that the surface is only a few strokes away, but there's an urgency. A quiet fear in the back of her mind that she'll run out of air before she can break out of the water …

And then she's opening her eyes and she's staring at the glittering city, sunlight filtering in through dimmed windows. Her arms feel full and then she remembers the pillow and she hugs it tighter, nuzzling her face into the soft cloth.

She hears the familiar sound of typing behind her and she sits up suddenly—struck with the realization that she's not in her room, or the guest room, and there's someone in bed. With _her._ And she'd been _asleep._ In bed. With someone else. Still clothed. _Sleeping._

Natasha jerks her head around and recoils in shock when she sees Loki sitting on the bed next to her, laptop propped on his lap and looking perfectly refreshed for the morning. "Dude—what _gives_?"

"Well, this is _my_ room you commandeered," Loki says, distractedly. He's frowning down at the screen, fingers tapping over keys at a moderate pace. "I should be asking _you_ that."

He's right, of course. When she surveys the room again she recognizes it as the one she'd designed for him shortly after his return. A room for _Loki_, not Olson—though it doesn't seem as alien as she might have expected. Resembles her own in its sparsity and modern angles.

With a groan, she collapses backwards, sulking at the ceiling. "Oh my … _God. _Ugh! How long was I _asleep_? My mouth tastes like ass and my body feels _weird."_ She feels … _fluffy!_ Was that a thing? Her face feels puffy and her limbs weigh a ton _each._ She just wants to curl back under the covers and ignore the world and the idea of neglecting her work for sleep is _very_ disconcerting.

Something small and hard drops on her face and she grabs away the offending object to see it's a chocolate mint. She huffs a laugh and unwraps the candy, popping it into her mouth.

"It's almost five o'clock in the afternoon," Loki says.

Natasha jolts, nearly choking on the mint. She scrambles to sit up again, back pressed against the headboard to match Loki's repose. "Holy shit. _What?_ That's—why didn't you wake me up?"

He doesn't look away from the screen, pausing his typing to brush a finger along the touchpad. He says, matter-of-factly, "Because you clearly needed the rest."

She huffs in disagreement even though her body and mind are slowly recovering from the aftereffects of sleep and she feels pretty … _great._ She feels rejuvenated. It's totally bizarre. Natasha sits quietly, frowning into space while she listens to Loki's quiet typing and breathing. She does an inventory of her physical state and can't believe how great she feels without even her first cup of coffee.

Coffee.

Glancing over at Loki, her mouth hangs open and her demand dies on her tongue when she sees the look of concentration he's wearing. She blinks, then shuffles closer until their sides are pressed together and she can see what he's looking at.

"What are you doing?" She asks with a frown, watching the way his long fingers fall over each keystroke, marveling at how, only a year ago, he could barely form a text. She grins. "Don't pretend you know how to use a laptop."

"Shut up."

Natasha laughs loudly and she feels him shift towards her as if to nudge her away.

"You're an idiot," he mutters.

She laughs again and drops her cheek on his shoulder without thinking about it, squinting her eyes at his screen, sucking silently on her mint until she loses her patience and crunches down on it with her teeth.

He doesn't try to shove her off again and resumes his work.

It takes only a second for her to recognize the different files he has open. They belong to various profiles she's built on the so called super-criminals and super-heroes. He's updating a number of them with bits of tiny but potentially relevant information, opening up the possibility for more ways that these people could be connected with one another.

They sit in relative silence for a while until it's interrupted by the buzzing of her phone somewhere in the sheets. She fumbles around for it but doesn't sit up, eventually finding her phone out and putting it on speaker without checking the ID.

Lazily, she mumbles, "Hey. What's up?"

"_Are you home? I've been trying to reach you all day. You better not be at the lab, Natasha."_ It's Pepper.

Natasha smiles. "I'm home."

"_Where? I just left the penthouse and you weren't there."_

"Loki's room."

Pepper is silent and Natasha hears Loki snort, turning his head so his cheek presses against the top of her head. "You're going to give her a heart failure."

Natasha only grins and reads Loki's reports while she waits. Pepper arrives within a few minutes, wandering into the room hesitantly. She treads the carpet like it's a minefield and when she sees them, she frowns.

Natasha lifts her head and grins. "Hey!"

" … Hi?" Pepper stands awkwardly at the foot of Loki's bed, looking between them like she's trying to figure something out. Begrudgingly, she acknowledges Loki with a nod and another, "Hi."

Loki hums, glancing up from the laptop for only a second. "Good afternoon."

Pepper looks back to Natasha, frown deepening. "I … was trying to reach you."

"That's my fault," Loki says apologetically to the screen (because Pepper is the only one who can elicit an apology from either Loki or Natasha). "I should have called you but I figured you wouldn't mind if she missed work to catch up on some much needed rest."

Natasha throws a glare at him then looks back at Pepper. "I think he cast a spell on me."

Pepper blinks, surprised, looking down at the bed, then Loki, then back at Natasha. "Wh—wait. Are you _just_ waking up?"

"Yup."

"Oh my God," Pepper gapes, stepping around the footboard. "That's—oh." She hesitates before taking a seat on the edge of the bed, looking to Loki. "Do you … mind?"

Loki just snorts, waving a hand to indicate she should make herself comfortable. "No. Go ahead. Make yourself at home. _Natasha_ already has."

Pepper clears her throat, sitting on the bed with care and watching Loki for a thoughtful moment. She blinks, then looks to Natasha. "Ah—yeah. Why _are_ you in … here?"

"Loki has a nicer bed," she says simply. In truth, she doesn't remember. She doesn't think she drank before going to bed last night, but she might as well have been blackout drunk because everything is pretty much a blank from yesterday after she left the lab.

"I … guess?" Unsurprisingly, Pepper seems to find Natasha's reasoning to be flawed. She shakes her head and smiles. "Well, it—I guess it doesn't matter. I'm relieved there's at least _someone_ who can get you to stop being so damn stubborn."

"I can't take any credit for that," Loki says, finally looking up properly from the laptop. He closes the lid with a soft click and then it dissolves into air with a wave of his hand. "I found her like this as I was heading to bed."

Pepper stares, incredulous. "Natasha—that's—who taught you _manners_?"

Natasha shrugs, slumping back into Loki's side when she realizes she's somehow sat forward while speaking with Pepper. "Meh."

"Well—I just came to bully you into bed, but it looks like someone beat me to it." Pepper's eyes linger on the point where Natasha's side is pressed into Loki's arm. She frowns, then it dissolves into a tentative smile when she looks up into Loki's eyes. " … Thanks."

Loki bows his head graciously and only Natasha sees the satisfied curl of his lips. "Of course."

Pepper sighs, standing. "I should get back to the office, then," she declares, smoothing her skirt and pinning them both with a pleased smile. "I'll see you two, later."

When she's gone, Natasha waits for several minutes before turning her head to leer up at Loki. He looks down at her at the same time and their faces are incredibly close, noses nearly touching—but instead of panic, Natasha feels something warm curl in her belly and finds she doesn't mind.

"I think she's warming up to you," she whispers.

Loki smiles, single brow arched pompously. "I know her weakness."

Natasha grins, all teeth, and can't pull her gaze away from the bright green of his eyes. "You're a kiss-ass."

"I just know who holds the _real_ power," he murmurs quietly—she feels the cool puff of his breath against her cheek with every word.

Natasha laughs. "Redheads, man. _Redheads."_

Loki sniffs quietly in agreement, amused, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that Natasha adores and something soft about the smile on his lips.

And then slowly, almost lethargically, he dips his head forward, forehead pressing against her lightly—and he just closes his eyes and seems to _rest._

It's soft. She feels … _soft._ Her position is comfortable enough that she doesn't need to adjust herself and Loki doesn't move, leaning into her and resting their brows together like it's all that he needs—and it's _soft. _The coolness of his skin and his breath soothing her suddenly feverish face. She doesn't blush, but her face feels warm and it spreads to her belly and she smiles while her brows draw together simultaneously in bemusement, her eyes darting across his face to analyze every minute detail.

A cool hand curls around her neck, thumb finding the hollow under her ear, fingers resting against the nape of her neck, tickling her hair. She feels the strength of his hold, enough to keep her in place but not enough to restrain her if she thought to pull away. Her smile dissolves and heart speeds up, stomach curling pleasantly and mind abuzz with thoughts.

She knows what this is. She _knows_.

But it's complicated. This isn't the same as when she'd taken that step outside the boundaries of friendship with Rhodey. This wasn't just friendship and she _knew_ that. There is a nearly infinite list of reasons why Loki is a bad idea and it's alarming how much she doesn't want to _care._ But more than her distrust and more than his past—there's a feeling that if she fucks this up (if _they_ fuck this up), then they can't go back to ... _this._

It's comfortable and familiar and everything. Her chest feels _full_ and her stomach is in knots but it feels good, if a little terrifying, and she _wants._

As if sensing her growing distress, Loki's brows tug together. Quietly, he murmurs, "What happened yesterday?"

Natasha sighs—watches the twitch of his lips at the warmth of her breath. "I … don't want to talk about it?" Somehow, it comes out like a question.

Loki snorts quietly and doesn't open his eyes, thumb brushing strokes along the hard edge of her jaw. "_You_? Don't want to _talk?"_

"I had a bad day. People have bad days."

Loki hums, thoughtfully, and she watches a corner of his mouth curl in a smirk. "Do I need to kill someone?"

Natasha huffs another laugh and this time sees his tongue dart out to wet his lips. "You can't make jokes like that. You might actually do it."

His lashes part and she sees him peering up at her through half-mast eyes, a smile in the crinkle of his eyes. "I'm not going to _kill_ anyone. If they don't deserve it."

Natasha merely grins back at him and he exhales loudly through his nose and pulls away with great reluctance. His hand remains and she brings up her own to hold it in place before he can think to remove it. His eyes drop to their joined hands and he smiles—but there's something heavy behind his eyes and Natasha's eyes fall to his lips and for some reason she thinks she sees the image of blood. She blinks, then frowns and looks up into his eyes.

"Did _you_ get any sleep?" she asks, not bothering to conceal her concern with banter. "You seem tired."

His removes his hand from her neck, but he shifts her hold on him so that his hand is covering hers, their joined hands resting on her lap.

"I did," he says eventually. "But I used a lot of magic. I need to eat something to recover the energy I spent."

She thinks about the fruit bowl in the penthouse that Pepper is always refilling. "So you have to eat more when you use a lot of magic?"

He nods. "Particularly sugars."

"Huh. That's … weird. But it makes sense. Cool."

His hand tightens around hers. "No."

She blinks, focusing her attention back to him. "What?"

"No." His eyes have narrowed and he has a knowing smirk on his lips. "I know what you're thinking. The answer is 'no'."

She balks, blinking innocently. "What? _I _don't know what I'm thinking. What am I thinking?"

He levels her with a '_You're not fooling me'_ sort of grin that makes Natasha give up her ruse of playing coy; she smiles. "You're thinking it'd be 'cool' to study me and my magic. See how the chemistry of it works."

She feigns amazement. "Wow. I think I _was _thinking that."

"It's a no."

She frowns. "Really?"

He nods his head patiently. "Really."

"That's no fun."

"I don't find anything about submitting myself to your experiments as 'fun'."

She huffs, "You make it sound like I'm Doctor _Frankenstein_. It's not like I'm going to cut you open or anything. It'd be totally non-invasive."

Loki doesn't blink. "No."

She goes for a pout. "Please?"

"No."

"Come_ on._ I _never _say 'please'!"

Loki rolls his shoulders in a shrug, leaning forward again so his lips are a breath away from her ear. "That's a matter of personal etiquette. It's still no."

"_Loki_."

He pulls away so he can lock their eyes, smirking indulgently. "Yes, Natasha?"

He's close enough that she can feel the coolness emanating from his skin; it's a little distracting. She sighs dramatically. "Come on."

"No."

"Lo_-ki!_"

"_Natasha."_

"Come. _On._ Please?_" _

His smirk disappears and he whispers, "You could always make your own coffee."

Natasha rears back, wide-eyed. "You—you wouldn't."

He shrugs, like the matter can't be helped.

"You are an _asshole._"

He smiles charmingly. "Coffee?"

* * *

Eventually, they do leave Loki's bedroom to take the elevator up to the penthouse, still squabbling like children, only interrupted when Natasha gets a call from Mrs. Arbogast to remind her to check her schedule. This puts Natasha into a sour mood, but it's short-lived when they find the penthouse empty. Loki makes a B-line for the bar to start on the coffee and Natasha follows with a grin.

"No Morgan tonight. You lucked out."

Loki grunts, throwing a scowl over his shoulder as she hops up on the bar and makes herself comfortable. "Is he planning to move in? Why is he still here, anyway?"

Natasha shrugs. "I don't know. This is the longest he's ever stayed. But he's not really bothering me so—"

"He's sleeping in your _room."_

She grins at the back of his head. "What's wrong? You don't like _sharing_?"

He huffs, turning and holding two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. He says, perfectly serious, "You snore."

Natasha gapes, dropping to her feet and rewarding him with punch to the shoulder before accepting her coffee. "I do _not._"

He doesn't seem too affected, gaze sliding away in thought. "_And_ you're distracting."

She brings the mug to her lips and shrugs. "_Well_. I can't help it if—"

"Not all of us like to sleep with a night-light."

In the process of taking a sip, she inhales sharply with surprise and gets a mouthful of coffee instead—_chokes,_ and then doubles over in coughing fit that sporadically gives way to laughter. Her throat and her tongue burn and she feels her eyes tearing up—but then she hears Loki laughing and it sets her off again until she's collapsed against the counter, body convulsing with laughter.

And that's how Bruce finds them when he walks in.

"What's … going on?"

She's pretty sure there's coffee dripping out of her nose and she swipes her arm under her nose and wipes her mouth and her eyes, struggling and mostly failing to contain herself. Loki's laughter has dissolved to silent chuckling but Natasha still can't get the image of her arc-reactor glowing out into the darkness of the room and keeping Loki from averting his eyes from the little circle of light in her chest.

"Loki's being an ass," she explains when she's a bit more in control. She clears her throat several times and her sides feel sore from laughing. She looks up at Loki purses her lips to fight back another smile; she doesn't completely succeed. "I can't _believe_ you said that. You made me spill my _coffee_."

Loki opens his mouth to respond but instead he only grins widely. Shaking his head, he turns away to distract himself with procuring another mug from the cupboard. She turns to Bruce and sees him staring, openly confused—and somehow that triggers another giggling fit which sets Loki off as well.

"Would you like a cup, Doctor Banner?" Loki asks, failing at his attempts for nonchalance.

Bruce darts his eyes between her and Loki like he's expecting someone to confess to murder. Eventually, he clears his throat and nods. "Ah—sure. Please. Black. Thanks."

"Sorry I wasn't at the lab today," Natasha says, breathless and still grinning. She sets her emptied mug on the bar, and throws a glare over her shoulder, "_This_ idiot thought it would be funny to let me sleep until—"

Loki is at her side in an instant, setting a mug down in front of her then sliding one across to Bruce. "I don't think you'll be earning any sympathies from Doctor Banner on this point."

She bumps her shoulder into his arm, looking up to glare playfully. "Oh. That's _right._ I forgot you jerks were conspiring against me now."

Loki smiles down at her, unapologetic. "It's for your own good. Unfortunately for you, you're human. Which means you need to sustain yourself with a regular diet and proper sleep if you want to function at any level of coherency."

She narrows her eyes, smiling dubiously. "I function pretty well."

Bruce's quiet cough draws her attention. He smiles uncertainly, his eyes flicking between her and Loki. "No. It's good you got some rest. You were starting to worry us. Even Agent Barton seemed concerned."

Natasha blinks. "The Hawk? When did I see _him_?"

Bruce doesn't look surprised. "Yesterday? You don't remember?"

She feels the firm press of Loki against her side and looks up at him with a shrug. "Nope."

"Well, you were pretty out of it for the past couple of days," Bruce says strangely.

She drops her eyes back on Bruce and sighs. "I've been _busy_. I've got a new assistant who's still learning the ropes. The board has been busting my balls on the new Stark phone. And—I've just been busy." Beside her, Loki sips quietly from his coffee, listening. She goes on, "Then there's the little issue with freaking _super-villains _running amuck. What the hell is even _that_ about?"

Bruce holds up his hands in surrender, brows high on his forehead. "Fine, fine. Sorry for caring."

"I'm just _saying_," Natasha shrugs, picking up her mug to give her something else to do. Bruce doesn't seem upset and silence descends while the three of them finish their coffees.

"So," Bruce says after a minute, eyes on Loki. And like the little shit he can be, he asks, "What have you been doing for the past two weeks?"

"Searching," Loki replies easily.

"For anything in particular?" Bruce presses, eyes narrowing.

"Yes."

Natasha ducks a smile behind her mug and sips quietly. Bruce frowns but drops the issue and Natasha leans into Loki's side a little more, briefly, before looking up at him. "Hey, what are you doing later today?"

Loki arches a brow, eyes bright with mischief. "Well, I just got _home_. I wasn't really planning anything. Why? Do you have something for me already?"

Out of the corner of her eye she notices Bruce staring at Loki, perplexed.

Natasha watches Bruce curiously, speaking to Loki, "Ah—I need your body more than I need your brains."

Loki sniffs. "Pardon?"

Bruce chokes on his coffee, turning away at the last second to spray it all over the floor.

She smiles and looks up at Loki—sees him shaking his head, clearly entertained. She explains, "I need to make an appearance at this new Japanese restaurant that just opened. I need some arm candy."

Loki snorts, rolling his eyes. "You can't get a date?"

"I can _always _get a 'date'. I just don't feel like it." She sets down her coffee and faces him, trying to convey sincerity through her eyes. "Just come with me. You _like_ sushi."

He's not sold. "Do I?"

Honestly, the last thing she was in the mood for was some mind-numbing conversation that was barely worth the sex. Not that she ever brings guys back when Loki is around. It's only when she's bored that she has to go out and _find_ a date and she's never really bored around Loki.

"Yeah," she says, thinking about the last time she and Loki had gone out to dinner. It was the night he'd told Pepper the _truth. _"You liked Masa."

Loki cants his head, looking thoughtful. "I don't remember this."

She glares, leaning close, stabbing a finger into his chest. "You know what? Fine. I'll just ask somebody else. But since I don't have a proper _room_ to come back to, I guess I'll just use the one from last _night_—"

Loki levels her with a scowl; she smirks triumphantly. "Don't even _think_ about it. I'll _go_."

She turns her grin to Bruce and grins. "I always win."

Loki grunts, "Why can't you take Doctor Banner?"

Bruce balks, shaking his head as he realizes that he's suddenly a part of the conversation. "Uh—I'm not 'arm-candy' _material_."

"Sure you are," Natasha flashes him a winning smile and wink. "But this place is going to be filled with pompous wealthy assholes and I'm sure you'd hate it."

Bruce nods, grimacing. "I probably would."

Natasha turns to Loki sharply, grinning. "But _you'd_ fit right in."

"Charming," Loki mutters, deadpan.

She laughs. "It'll be fun."

He snorts, turning to his coffee. "I doubt it."

"With _that_ attitude?" Natasha shakes her head, leaning across the bar to whisper to Bruce, "Humans make him grumpy."

* * *

Pepper leaves the Tower looking stunned, but Happy waits until she's inside the car before he thinks about questioning her. He doesn't have to say anything, however, because almost immediately Pepper blurts out:

"I think Natasha is sleeping with Loki."

Happy's immediate reaction is: "That's _great!"_ Pepper's head swivels to frown at him and he retracts his statement with a grimace, "I mean …"

Sighing heavily, Pepper sinks back into the passenger's seat and turns her gaze upwards. "No. You're right. It's great."

Happy chews on the inside of his cheek, hesitating. "You don't _sound_ like you think it's great."

"She slept in his room last night."

Happy blinks. "Wait—_slept_?"

"Slept."

"So … when you said you thinking she's _sleeping_ with Loki … ?"

"She _slept_ with him." Pepper nods, frowning. Happy still hasn't started the car but he doesn't think he's in any condition to drive. This is serious news. "Slept as in _slept_. I don't think they've had sex. Yet."

Happy sits back, staring ahead through the windshield. "Whoa."

"Yeah."

* * *

Happy is still reeling from his conversation with Pepper when he takes the car downtown to meet up with Loki. He uses the drive to sort out his excitement—doesn't want to freak the guy out or seem nosy. Still, he considers Loki to be a friend and when he spots him waiting just outside the shop he grins and jogs the rest of the way to the man's side.

Loki has showed up dressed as if for a cocktail party. He's wearing a tailored dark grey suit, three-piece, with a charcoal tie interwoven with threads of white silk in a diagonal pattern, a white shirt and black dress shoe. He looks like a movie star and Happy feels as if every person on the street has their eye on him, struggling to determine if they've seen him somewhere. It's both amusing and potentially worrisome—he just wants to shop in peace and doesn't want to have to deal with reporters mistakenly thinking Loki is some sort of celebrity on Earth.

"Lookin' sharp!"

Loki chuckles, stepping forward to open the door. "A jewelry store, Happy?"

Happy flushes and rushes inside so that Loki can't see his embarrassment. Pepper's revelation doesn't help the fact that Happy's already felt like a nervous wreck for the past two weeks, counting down the days until Loki's arrival.

"So, I guess you know why you're here," Happy mumbles as he leads them through a maze of display cases to the side of the room featuring rings.

Loki's wearing a teasing smile as he ducks his head and replies quietly, "I guess I do."

He's been dating Pepper for a little over a year, but he's known her for far longer. There has never been any doubt in his mind that this was the woman he wanted to spend his life waking up to, but up until last year he'd never imagined it could be a possibility. Almost every day feels like he's in a dreamy haze, but he never wakes up. Pepper is there, every day, stealing little pieces of his heart with every smile. There has never been a woman quite like her—so grounded and confident and strong. There was so much heart in her, and so much strength and a willingness to ease the burdens of others. It's the sort of selflessness you hear about in movies or stories—it's not supposed to be real, but there she is, and she's amazing.

It feels like cheating. It feels like somehow he's stepped outside reality because it shouldn't be possible for a girl like her to be interested in a guy like him.

Happy knows he's grinning like a loon as they examine the designs of the rings in companionable silence, Loki's presence earning them the avid interest of the floor manager. She flirts shamelessly with Loki but Loki only smiles graciously and doesn't say much else—which makes Happy grin in satisfaction because one of the things he loves about Pepper and the boss and that he sees in Loki is loyalty. Unconditional loyalty.

As the manager leaves to bring out a different catalogue, Happy turns to Loki. "Just so you know, buddy—I'm cheerin' for ya."

Loki blinks down at him, smiling with curiosity. "How do you mean?"

Happy's smile widens and he leans forward, whispering conspiratorially. "You and the boss. I think it was always meant to happen."

Loki's eyes squint and he cants his head like he's searching for the right thing to say. "I'm not sure Pepper would agree."

"She does," Happy assures him. It's not a lie. Pepper is hurt, but she likes Loki, and she likes the boss when she's with Loki. "She's just a little ticked off at the moment."

Loki sighs, lowering his voice as he spots the manager making her ways across the room towards them, catalogue tucked under one arm. "Yes. I know. I'm working on that."

Happy smiles sympathetically, patting the man's shoulder. "I know ya are, buddy. So does she. Just remember what she told ya and you'll be gravy."

Loki snorts, frowning down at him incredulously. "I'll be _what_?"

"Gravy. You know? _Smooth_." Loki just shakes his head and Happy laughs, realizing that for all that he might seem like just a regular Joe, Loki wasn't even _human. "_Ah—right. I forget. You probably don't. It's fine. Forget it. I'm just sayin', you and the lady-boss? There's no better match."

Loki hums in disagreement, pacing along a row of display cases, eyes on the extravagant rings. "There's you and Pepper."

Happy follows, trying to smile away his discomfort at Loki's words; they bring attention to Happy's very real insecurities and he's not willing to face them just yet. "Yeah—but I'm still waiting for camera crews to come out and start shoutin' 'Gotcha!'"

Loki frowns, leveling him with a no-nonsense look. "That's not going to happen, Harold."

Happy smiles weakly. "I hope not." He forces out a pretty terrible excuse for a laugh and shrugs. "Anyway—I wouldn't mind dreamin' just a little longer."

"Look what _I_ found!" the manager sing-songs, siddling between them to show them a rather gorgeous ring in her catalogue. She all but shoves the catalogue into Happy's hands, turning her pretty smile Loki. "It's classic and elegant, with a cushion modified _brilliant_ diamond encircled by a double row of bead-set diamonds."

"Hm. Lovely," Loki smiles, stepping away politely to look at another display a little further away.

The manager bites her lip, eyes lingering on Loki, then turns to Happy with a significantly dimmer smile. Feeling charitable, Happy tries to smile sympathetically. "It's nice."

Loki draws their attention by tapping a finger against the glass of a display, "What about this one?"

Happy steps closer, crouching to get a closer look. The ring was a rose diamond surrounded by a halo of smaller diamongs with a gold band—simple and elegant. "Oh wow. Jeez. That's a _beaut_. It would look _great_ on Pepper …" He frowns as his eyes find the price tag tucked subtly around the band. $600,000. "But—just a little out of my price range."

He's not hurting for money by any stretch of the imagination. The boss pays him well. But over half a million for a ring—Happy hadn't grown up in a world where that was excusable and he wasn't sure Pepper would appreciate it. They're modest people, even if their employer was anything but.

Loki looks down at the ring thoughtfully, slipping his hands into his pockets. "It's not that much. Natasha can afford it."

"Natasha?" the manager starts.

Happy stares at Loki, "You 'n the boss really don't understand the concept of budgeting, do you? You're like a prince or something and the boss is—well, the _boss._"

Loki blinks at him, slowly, then says, "If you don't get it, I will."

"_Prince_?" the manager squeals.

Happy sighs, shaking his head. "Seriously, Lo, I can't. I want it to be from me and much as I love the boss—I just don't think it'd be right." Loki nods and turns back to the rings so Happy turns his attention to the flustered manager and smiles. "Would you excuse us for a moment, miss?"

"Ah—ah—sure!"

When she's gone, Happy watches Loki in silence. There's something calming about him in the way that reminds him of the boss—the shroud of confidence that he carries about himself in the firm set of his shoulder and the curve of his spine. Neither are very humble people and their incredible intelligence beyond anything Happy can ever grasp—but there's something so raw about them that is fascinating. They feel so much and it shows in their eyes and their enthusiasm for what they do.

Happy realizes he's smiling when he notices a clerk across from him looking between him and Loki with a knowing smile. Shaking his thoughts, he steps up next to him and says, "Hm. You an' the boss are a lot alike."

Loki sounds distracted. "How so?"

Happy chuckles. "_Well_, both of you go outta your way to avoid talkin' about your feelings."

"Do we?"

Happy rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "You're doin' it right now."

"I'm doing what?" Loki is grinning, pointedly studying the rings in the display.

"Bein' difficult," Happy huffs.

"I didn't think I was."

"Well, ya _are_."

Instead of answering, Loki reaches out to rap his knuckles on the glass over a pretty white-gold ring, heavy with diamonds, with a price tag that almost gives Happy a heart attack. "This one is nice."

Happy exhales heavily, forcing himself to look away from the ring. "You're doin' it again."

Loki turns his body to face him, hands in his pockets and studying Happy with a wry smirk. "I thought we were here for _you_."

"We _are_," Happy agrees, crossing his arms and trying his best to imitate the serious tone Pepper uses whenever she to address a serious matter with the boss. "But that was before Pepper told me you an' the boss are—"

"_Oh_," Loki rocks his head back, grinning with understanding. He chuckles. "Is that what this is about? That was a misunderstanding."

Happy isn't buying it for a second but he feels his cheeks heat as he tries to explain, "She said you two were—ah—"

Loki grins, quirking a brow, "Sharing a bed?"

Happy shuffles uncomfortably. "That's one way to put it."

"That's the _only _way to put it."

Happy instantly pouts, trying not to feel too disappointed. "So you're not … ?"

Loki shakes his head, grin dimming. "There's nothing going on."

Maybe Happy was pretty terrible with calling these sorts of things, but Pepper was hardly ever wrong. Happy squints up at the taller man, skeptical. "Just '_friends'_, huh? Uh-_huh_."

Loki smiles mysteriously. "I didn't say that."

"_More_ than 'friends'?" Happy asks hopefully.

Loki chuckles. "I didn't say that either."

Happy huffs, frustrated with the man's deliberate obtuseness. "So what is it, then?"

"Complicated."

"Why?"

This gives the other pause. Where he seemed to enjoy making Happy struggle to pluck a half decent answer out of him, this time he frowns—says almost absently. "Because of what I am."

That doesn't sound right. "I … don't think the boss really _minds_. She seems to like ya well enough, even after you tried to take over the world." He goes for humor but Loki is unreadable.

"She doesn't trust me," Loki says with a shrug.

"Sure she does," Happy frowns, sensing there's something more.

He'd never spent much time trying to categorize the relationship between Loki and the boss. They were already rather larger than life characters in Happy's world, it only seemed to make sense that they would fit together. There were plenty of smart people in this world—Bruce, for example—but he couldn't think of anyone who could play at the level the boss worked at like Loki. Everything was a big game to the boss—everything had to be a _show._

"I'm fairly certain she doesn't," Loki says after a moment.

Happy is doubtful. "Did she say that?"

"Yes."

He smiles. "Well, then—_there_ ya go. She _trusts_ ya." Loki isn't convinced but Happy can see his curiosity so Happy elaborates. "You have your own _room_. She lets you in her _workshop_. She lets you handle her _suits_. And—she …" Happy leans forward, reaching out to grab the man's arm and tug him down to his level. He whispers, "—_slept_ with you."

Loki's eyes narrow, bent at the waist to keep their faces level. "Yes, but we only _slept_. Nothing happened."

"_Exactly_." Happy grins. "The boss has been with alotta guys. Sometimes she lets them spend the night, sometimes she doesn't. But she _never _goes to their place and she _never _sleeps in the same bed. She slept in _your _bed. That's a pretty big deal."

Loki straightens, a pinch between his brow. He doesn't say anything immediately and is looking over Happy's shoulder like he's lost in thought. Finally, he says, "We should go."

Happy starts. "_Go_? But we haven't—"

"You won't be getting a ring here today," Loki says matter-of-factly, already striding towards the exit.

Happy scrambles to catch up. "Loki—"

They're out the door when Loki looks down at him and grins. "I have an idea."

* * *

**End Notes: **I'm splitting up this chapter in two parts since I can't figure out why else refuses to upload it.


	8. And Together With You

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Dinner and late night crime-fighting.

* * *

Chapter Seven:

[Part II]

_She Wants To Be Alone and Together With You_

Bruce is sitting in the penthouse after Natasha has disappeared into her workshop. Loki doesn't stay long, though he lingers long enough so it doesn't seem that he's leaving on account of Bruce and that's just … _bizarrely _considerate_? _Bruce eventually follows Natasha downstairs to watch her work but he doesn't have anything to say.

The last two weeks have been like dealing with a completely different, more _volatile, _Natasha. It's strange because, while she can be a pain in the ass, she's not actually a temperamental person. At the very least, she reins it in before anyone else can see that side of her.

She'd been sleeping less and he doesn't remember the last time she ate or drank anything that wasn't strongly caffeinated. Pepper had raved the first couple of days when she'd discovered Loki was gone, but Bruce had been surprised when her anger had given way to concern and she'd questioned whether he knew if Loki and Natasha had a falling out—something to explain Natasha's strange behavior. Bruce didn't know what Loki would have to do with it, but he recognized Natasha's behavior as a result of being overworked. Of course, when telling Natasha Stark that she was too stressed to work, one should expect the resulting conflict will not be … pleasant. It's fortunate that Natasha makes an effort to contain her temper normally, because when unleashed it's: everything goes, cutting words and maximum impact.

After a couple of hours Natasha leaves to get ready for her dinner with Loki and Bruce follows her upstairs, lingering in the front room until Loki appears—and then he feels more like a brother seeing his baby sister off on her first date and it's disturbing and vaguely traumatizing. Loki is wearing a tailored suit and he arrives with Happy, though the man quickly excuses himself when Loki quietly informs him that they'll be taking the Tesla.

When Natasha comes out, she's wearing a short-sleeved slim cream-colored dress with black lace embellishment and pale stilettos. The dress dips into a low enough V-neck that he can see half of the arc-reactor glowing brightly at him and he starts, clearing his throat and looking up to catch Loki's knowing grin.

"We're taking the Tesla," Natasha declares and when Bruce looks at her he sees she's wearing light, shimmery makeup, her lashes darker and fuller and her lips painted a brilliant red. Her hair is slicked and pinned back on the sides, the crown teased and swept back. For the first time, Bruce thinks she actually resembles the celebrity that she is.

"I assumed," Loki says agreeably. "I've already let Happy know. Do I get to drive?"

She grins at him, her teeth bright white against the red of her lips. "You're funny."

"Are you trying to look like me?" Loki asks instead, reaching out a hand to smooth over the back of her hair where he won't disturb her work.

"I pull it off better," she retorts with a smarmy smirk. "You just look like a hot mess."

Loki just shakes his head, smiling in amusement.

"You—uh—guys heading out now?" Bruce says for lack of anything to say, feeling incredibly awkward.

"Reservation's at nine, so yeah," Natasha replies. She holds up a thumbs-up and winks, "Do I look good?"

"I … _guess?_ I kind've prefer you in a t-shirt," Bruce replies honestly. "This is kind of distracting."

Immediately, Natasha and Loki look to each other and share a grin.

They head out shortly after, still arguing over who will be driving the Tesla, though something about Loki's smirk tells Bruce he has no interest in the vehicle and is merely arguing with Natasha for the sake of it.

It's not that he's never seen Natasha dressed up—he hasn't been living under a rock; he's bound to catch a glimpse of her on television or in a magazine—but it hadn't occurred to him until now that he'd always assumed Natasha subscribed to a wardrobe of t-shirts and suits on account of the reactor in her chest. Bruce cringes under scrutiny because sometimes he feels like if a person looks hard enough they can see the monster lurking under his skin—but Natasha wears her imperfection for the world to see and that's not a matter of choice. Somehow, Bruce had always thought that, while she was not self-conscious of the little circle of light, she was just as averse to putting it on display unnecessarily.

She'd seemed comfortable enough, however, standing next to Loki like they could possibly be regular people going out for a normal dinner.

Bruce is still recovering from his shock when the elevator doors slide open and Pepper steps in with a small armful of folders.

"Natasha here?" she asks distractedly, trying to free a hand to text something on her phone as she crosses the room.

"You just missed her," Bruce mutters dazedly.

Pepper looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. "She's not going to the lab, is she?"

"No," Bruce shakes his head, and can't help from adding, "She's with Loki."

Relieved, Pepper nods and returns to her phone. She disappears somewhere down the hall and returns without the folders, wandering behind the bar and pulling a water bottle from the mini-fridge.

" … Bruce?" Pepper calls out after a moment.

Bruce twists to look at her. "Uh—yeah—huh?"

Pepper frowns, swallowing a mouthful of water. She's still standing behind the bar, peering at him curiously, brows drawn in concern. "You … _okay_, honey? You've been standing in the same spot since I got here."

He exhales loudly, shaking his head, "I—I didn't—I can't believe I never realized …"

"Never realized what, sweetie?" Pepper is always much more affectionate when there's no Natasha or Loki around to stress her out.

Bruce doesn't even know how to find words to explain the state of his shock. He blinks a couple of times, running a hand through his hair as he turns and paces across the room to join Pepper across the bar. Eventually, he only says, "Natasha and Loki."

Pepper blinks—and seems to understand. "Oh."

Bruce frowns—not upset because of _course_ Pepper would know before him, but disgruntled all the same. "You _knew_?"

Pepper grimaces, fiddling with the cap on her water bottle and looking anywhere but him. "I don't … "

"How did this happen? When?"

She suddenly looks confused and she looks to him thoughtfully. "_What_ happened? What's brought this on?"

What, _indeed. _"I saw them earlier. They … " Bruce shakes his head, removing his glasses and blinking his eyes repeatedly. "I don't even know what was going on. It's like I've been gone for months. There's just this feeling that they—there's just so much familiarity. I don't understand how that could—I don't get it."

"I see," is all that Pepper says.

Bruce levels her with a severe expression. "Pepper, they're going on a _date_."

Pepper starts, eyes widening with shock. "Wait—what? When did _that_ happen?"

"They're going out to _dinner_."

She takes interest with that and then draws out her phone, thumbing through something on her screen. After a minute she laughs nervously, shaking her head and says, "Oh. No, no. That's—that's not a date. I know what you're talking about. That's just dinner. Every time a new luxurious restaurant or shop opens up they send out invitations to local celebrities. It's just for publicity. Natasha takes Loki all the time to spare us the drama of the inevitable fallout of taking an actual date."

Bruce stares. "Wait. They do this all the time?"

Pepper nods, pocketing her phone. "Well—whenever Natasha needs to make an appearance somewhere. It's convenient. They go—eat, drink or shop or whatever—get their picture taken and then they come home." She smiles fondly and he's not sure she's aware of it because she says, "I think Loki uses his magic to keep the paparazzi from hounding them. Natasha and Loki are notoriously difficult to catch on the street. I think the reporters have taken it as a challenge."

She seems to think this is all very well and natural. Bruce feels like an idiot for having missed it before. It's always unnerved him how comfortable Natasha was having Loki around. Now, it made sense—and it also brought on a whole new slew of questions.

"Pepper."

She blinks, "Yes?"

He sets his glasses back on his nose and says, "Basically, what you're saying is that they're dating. And they have been for a while."

She balks. "What? _No_. I'm telling you—it's just for _publicity_."

Bruce stares. "Okay. So, what you're saying is that—_instead_ of picking up a random guy to take on a date whenever Natasha needs to make an 'appearance', she takes _Loki_. And it's not a date. It's just dinner. Because it's _Loki_. But if it was any other guy, it's a date."

"Ye—no! No. No, no. It's not—" He watches the color drain from her face; her mouth hangs open and she stares ahead of herself blankly as if she can see Natasha and Loki where they had been standing several minutes ago. "—shit. It's a date."

Bruce nods sympathetically. "It's a date."

"They're dating," Pepper says, breathlessly. "Oh my God."

"Do they know?" Bruce asks, because that's a pretty reasonable thing to ask, considering.

Pepper blinks and seems to think about it. "I don't think so."

"Are you going to tell them?"

She laughs, a little hysterically, "Are you crazy? _Hell _no."

Bruce nods again. "Okay. Yeah. That's a good idea."

She exhales, blinks, then begins walking away. "I need to call Happy."

He follows her to the elevator and replies, "I'll be in the lab."

* * *

There's no wait when they arrive at the restaurant because she's Natasha Stark. They get a crescent booth in the furthest corner of the restaurant and instead of sitting across from each other they slide until they're seated at the center of the booth, sides pressed and close enough that they can speak comfortably without having to worry about being overheard. She tries to save them some time by requesting the chef surprise them with whatever specialty rolls he has and orders a wine for herself and Loki.

For his part, Loki doesn't bother cracking open a menu, letting her order for the two of them in part because he can't be bothered to address the staff and in part because Natasha is used to giving the orders in these sort of situations.

Loki waits until the waitress has cleared away to retrieve their drinks to lean in and say, "I know you don't want to hear this, but—you _need _to start taking your health seriously."

She snorts, snatching the artistically folded tablecloth and laying it out flat across her lap. "I'm _fine, _dad." She cringes immediately and ducks her face so only Loki can see. "Ew. That's gross on account you being old enough to be older than … Ew."

Loki just shakes his head, rolling his eyes. Quietly, he murmurs, eyes studying the room, "I'm being serious. Right now, you're barely the second most attractive person in the room."

She laughs at him, brows high on her forehead. "Oh, yeah? Who's the _most_?"

"Me."

She grins, watching his profile and the smirk he's not bothering to conceal. "Are you saying I'm normally better looking than you?"

The corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief. "Certainly."

She huffs, sitting up primly and saying in her most haughty tone, "Well, I _agree_."

Loki looks away from the room to look at her, all charm. "So if you won't care for yourself for your _own _benefit, then do it for those poor sods who are still waiting for their chance to be with you."

"That's not a problem," she murmurs, summoning a flirtatious smile when she sees a few people openly staring out of the corner of her eye. "Guys don't sleep with me because of my looks. They sleep with me because I have money and a name. Everything else is just a bonus. Men only care about _one_ thing."

"Women can be the same, can't they?"

"It's just people. It has nothing to do with gender. People are just people."

She knows how intimate they look, Loki's body angled towards her and hers leaning into his, their heads turned to each other so it seemed like they were oblivious to the rest of the room. It was a well-practiced facade and not for the first time was she grateful to have Loki at her disposal.

It hasn't been easy having a social life. It's gotten worse over the years, and reached an all-time high of irritability just this past year. It had been easy being Natasha Stark because ogling celebrities was par for the course. But then she became Iron Woman and the pressure intensified by ten-fold. She'd managed (it'd taken quite a bit of drink, but she managed)—but now she was an _Avenger_ on top of everything else and it made dealing with the media a _nightmare._

"Joking aside," Loki murmurs, gaze serious. "Can you make more of an effort not to treat your health so carelessly?"

Natasha is careful not to scowl. "I—"

"While I was gone, I received nearly a dozen phone calls a day from Pepper, Coulson and _Doctor Banner._ That's not you taking care of yourself, Natasha."

She's surprised—but more so by the fact that they'd called _Loki_ of all people. "Why did they call _you?"_

Loki doesn't have an answer.

His eyes drop to her shoulder and he brings up a hand to smooth down the back of her head, leaving his hand at her nape to draw her hair into a loose fist. He studies her hair as if deeply fascinated. She lets him be and doesn't look away from him when the waitress appears with their drinks.

"I don't know what happened," Natasha says quietly, dropping her gaze to her wine glass with a frown. "Maybe I was sick. I just … I was just feeling so terrible every day. Every time I tried to sleep it was—I couldn't. My head was always going and going and I guess I was just trying to keep up—waiting for my body to crash when it couldn't take it anymore."

His hand releases her hair, curling around the back of her neck to stay there. "You're better now?"

"I guess. I slept pretty well last night, apparently." She sighs, resisting the urge to run a hand through her hair. She'd spent a sufficient amount of time putting it together to mess it up. "Some days it just feels like I'm being set up for something."

"I share the feeling," Loki grunts.

She's trying to picture Loki fielding calls from a frantic Pepper, a quietly concerned Coulson and a begrudging Bruce. She frowns as she thinks about all the calls she'd received from Loki throughout the last two weeks and how they must have come after every concerned phone call from her nosy but well-meaning friends. At last, she says, "It's kind of weird."

"What is?" Loki asks, taking a sip from his wine.

Clearing her throat, she takes her wine glass and turns her eyes to the room, speaking quietly. "You. Acting like you _care._ It's weird."

Loki snorts softly. "I _do_ care."

"Hm."

"Natasha," Loki says her name in a way that has her turning her eyes to meet his, urgent and familiar. He searches her face for something and then continues, "I've never had someone to share my thoughts with. Have never met anyone who could pick through my words and find the truth. I'd like to think we're … allies. So, yes, I care."

"But we're not always going to be on the same side," Natasha counters carefully, feeling a sliver of dread.

He shrugs and his thumb strokes a pattern at her neck. "That's really up to you."

In his own way, for his own reasons, she thinks he actually _might_ care. Her only response is a smile and she admits to herself that she might care for him in return—if they could be allies, it would never be in the most conventional of ways. But allies didn't have to agree on everything. They could stand together, even on opposite sides—and she wonders if that's what he means. She needs a resolution—needs to know if she can count on him when the time comes or if she should be preparing for the next betrayal.

Eventually, she murmurs seriously, "I'm not an idiot. I know that there's a new game and I may or may not be involved—but I've got my own battles to fight here on Earth and I can't fight a war on two fronts. I can't defend against people and aliens alike and I need to—I _have_ to know where you stand. I have to know which side you're on."

"I don't choose sides. I serve only myself."

She exhales loudly, nodding exasperatedly, "Yes, yes. I understand that. I _get_ that. But—"

"You're right," Loki says abruptly and their eyes lock. "There are certain things I must do that I know you won't necessarily agree with—which is why I have not spoken to you about it, though I knew you would inevitably catch on."

Her heart falters in a beat and she murmurs, "Thanos?"

Loki's expression is unconcerned. "It's complicated—and I can tell you that your world is not my target and that you are not my enemy, but I know there is doubt in you. I know there always will be."

She shakes her head, sighing, "I hope you know what you're doing."

He shrugs and smirks. "I usually do."

She licks her lips and tries to stamp down on her anxiety. "So the super-humans—that has nothing to do with you? Or Thanos or whatever you're … _involved_ in?"

Loki cants his head, thumb resting at the hem of her neckline. "Not so far as I have discerned."

She frowns, sipping her wine. "Then why are you even—why bother with it at all?" It had baffled her when Loki had agreed to assist her by looking into the growing super-human community, but knowing that he was splitting his attention between that and whatever else he had on his plate made absolutely no sense. They didn't owe each other anything. There was nothing actually _keeping _him here—keeping him _loyal._

"Because you asked me to look into it," Loki says simply, smiling. "And it benefits me to have you on my side."

Natasha frowns. "Who says I'm on your side?" And then, a rather unusual thought enters her head and she leans in, frown deepening. "Loki, are we _friends?"_

He sniffs. "I wouldn't use so plebeian a word."

Natasha sits back, not too surprised but still a little disturbed. She shakes her head, muttering, "Jeez. How did this happen?"

"It's not so bad. I've never had a friend."

She snorts, smirking wryly. "_That's_ good. I'm a pretty terrible friend."

He sits forward, his grip on her nape tightening briefly to indicate his intent to speak seriously. "Listen, I know you don't trust me—"

"Look, I don't know _what_ I think," Natasha rolls her eyes and sighs, leaning towards him. "I'm a cynical person by nature. I don't trust _anyone. _Everyone disappoints you, at some point, it's just a matter of waiting long enough. Friendship's like a leash—and over time, it gets shorter and shorter until you reach the last stretch and you're left with a choice: do you hang yourself? Or do you let the other person take the noose?"

Loki doesn't react like anyone else would because of _course_ he _understands_. There's no pity or sympathy or judgment in his eyes, just a steady and quiet knowingness. Everyone disappoints—it's only a matter of maintaining a relationship long enough to let it happen. Natasha had disappointed Rhodey when she'd given up arms for 'peace' and Rhodey had betrayed her when he'd chosen the government over their friendship. She had been betrayed by Obadiah when profit and fame proved to be more valuable than the loyalty between them—had been betrayed by Howard and her mother, deceived by Loki and used by Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. and disappointed by Rogers.

_Rogers._

There's a shadow of a thought tickling in the back of her mind—a memory.

"Why did you give me a second chance?" Loki asks neutrally.

Natasha blinks and tries to remember if there was ever a reason. It always seemed she had an excuse handy whenever anyone else questioned her, but she didn't seem to have one prepared for Loki and she'd never bothered with one for herself because she hadn't liked to linger too much on what it could _mean._

"Like I said—I don't know," she says eventually, shrugging like it's not as big of a deal as it feels. "Maybe—maybe I just like have you on _my_ side, as well."

"We're good together," Loki says with a smile.

She narrows her eyes at him, deadpan, "We're _dangerous._"

He chuckles quietly, "Well, if you ever decide you want more than what this rock can offer you—you're always welcome to join me."

It's always the same offer, considerably less sinister than the first. She doesn't know why he thinks that she _would_ or why he'd ever want to. If they _are_ friends, then it's a friendship she can't even begin to classify.

"I think I'd like to see what's out there," she admits, because even though what she'd seen had been terrifying—still haunting her in her sleep—since when has she ever backed down from a challenge? "But I like having something to come back to. Everyone needs a home."

The food arrives and they take turns picking at the sushi rolls while Natasha catches Loki up on her work with Bruce (and now Pym) and Parker's progress. He takes an interest in Bruce, though he admits, "It'd be a shame to lose the Hulk. He's an incredible asset."

Natasha feels a familiar guilt twist in her belly and grimaces. "I _know._ That's—that's terrible, isn't it? I mean, this is what Bruce wants. I should want that, too. But—the Hulk is _revolutionary._"

"He can't be controlled," Loki counters, just to play devil's advocate. "And you're not the one who has to live with him."

She sighs dejectedly, nodding. She feels like a kid who's been told she has to give up her favorite toy. It's a disappointing feeling to discover about herself. "Right. I know. That's true. But—you know what I mean. It's …"

"It seems a waste."

Which is a terrible thought—and her feelings exactly. It's not that she only sees the Hulk as a science experiment, but she'd be remiss to dismiss what both he and Bruce could provide for the future of science.

She lets the topic dissolve before her mood can sour and then Loki, apropos to nothing, says: "I went ring shopping with Happy today."

It takes her only a second to deduce, "Oh my God—is he going to _propose?"_

"Looks that way."

"Oh my _God. _Why would you _tell _me that?" She balks at him, horrified. "You _know_ I can't keep secrets!"

"Well," Loki chuckles, "You're going to have to."

"This is _terrible._ This is terrible-_wonderful_ news_," _Natasha moans, earning another laugh from Loki. She glares, reaching out with a swift smack to the chest. "You're such a _jerk."_

"I thought you might like to know," Loki shrugs, hardly seeming to notice her offense.

"Yeah, from the happy _couple—_no pun intended," Natasha mutters, irate. "How am I supposed to keep this to myself? Why would you tell me?_"_ Loki shrugs and Natasha smacks him again. "You are worse than _me_. You're just doing this so you don't have to suffer the secret _alone_."

Loki doesn't argue the point and when dessert arrives, she takes the reins on the conversation, familiar with Loki's propensity to find ways to redirect it to her, anyway. It's fine until he presses her on the day before and she can't answer because she _can't remember._ She thinks she remembers getting pretty piss drunk but she's almost certain she remembers Morgan intervening before she got out of hand.

Her mood had been souring particularly these last few days with everyone watching her—waiting for some breakdown they'd convinced themselves was inevitable. She gets their concern_—_but she can hold herself together. She doesn't need her hand held.

"Hey. Look at me," Loki says suddenly, quiet and urgent. Natasha looks up and his hand is at her chin, holding her in place. She frowns but he leans forward, studying her eyes with interest. "Are you okay?"

She blinks, bemused. "Yeah. I'm fine. Why?"

Loki shakes his head absently, strangely serious. "Just … "

"I'm sorry to interrupt the lovely couple—is there anything else I can get you two?"

She sees a flash of exasperation in Loki's eyes and he drops his hand without moving away to put distance between them. She glances across the table at the waitress to shake her head—and then can't help but stare. The woman is young and super-model gorgeous, platinum blond hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders.

She's also staring directly at Loki, green eyes bright and hungry.

Natasha almost laughs out loud, "No. We're good, thanks."

The waitress doesn't immediately retreat and Loki sits back with a soundless exhale, flicking his eyes away from Natasha, towards the waitress.

And then he goes absolutely still, eyes narrowing.

"Are you sure there isn't anything I can get you, _sir_?" The waitress asks, beaming.

Loki is _glaring_ and Natasha blinks, startled. He grits out a, "No," and only then does the waitress twirl away, bouncing off to the next table with a giggle.

Loki is still scowling at the spot where the waitress had stood and Natasha frowns. "Uh—problem?"

"No," he mutters but she's not buying it. She waits until he looks at her and he rolls his eyes, elaborating, "She was just—_broadcasting_ her thoughts rather … _loudly."_

"Is that usually a problem?"

He sneers, "Not usually."

She considers his darkened expression. "Do we need to go?"

This seems to catch him off guard. He looks to her, bemused, then shakes his head and lets out a heavy exhale.

She's never seen him this worked up so quickly and she wonders what thoughts he must have seen in the blond that could possibly be worse than anything Natasha could concoct on a normal day. It's not like Loki's a _telepath_, anyway. His magic is what allowed him to sift through peoples' thoughts and he wore his magic like a cloak at all times, but it's not like he went around rifling through people's thoughts. He didn't even like _speaking_ to people outside of necessity or her small circle of friends and colleagues. It seemed unusual that some random girl's thoughts could be so loud they'd capture his attention without his permission.

He falls into sullen silence and Natasha doesn't try to lure him out of it, shifting her body to face the room and surveying the other patrons with little interest.

There are a few men at the bar nursing hard drinks and scanning the room with interest—likely searching for a female companion for the night. Natasha isn't the only woman that catches their eye and she receives quite a few leers that she returns for the sake of her own amusement. She tries to spot the waitress again but she's nowhere to be seen; Natasha _does_ spot Osborn with a client and sends him a smirk and nod when he catches her eyes across the room. He smiles back courteously and Natasha takes that to mean he actually_ is_ here on official business so she turns back to Loki to see him staring vacantly at the room.

Frowning, Natasha leans in close, lips to his ear. She whispers sweetly, "I swear to _God_, if this is a projection …"

Natasha feels a strong arm circle around her waist, a hand settling on her hip. Loki's head turns to look at her and she leans back to meet his eyes. "Not. But I _am_ looking into something."

Natasha doesn't glance back to Osborn but she nods all the same and settles back.

Loki doesn't remove his arm for the rest of the dinner.

* * *

By the time they've returned to the penthouse, there are two texts waiting for her from Pepper. The first one reads: **Hansen dropped off some papers for you. Safe. **Which Natasha takes to mean she won't have to wait until the morning to run compatibility tests between her suit and project she was working on with Maya.

The second text reads: **How was dinner?**

Oddly, Natasha gets the feeling that there's more to that text than a simple inquiry on the quality of the meal or restaurant. Suspiciously, she replies: **Good.**

Almost immediately, Pepper responds: **Did you have fun?**

Which is strange, because Pepper doesn't usually invest much interest in these sorts of things. **It was alright. We had sex on the table. I think I sat on some wasabi. There's a burning sensation.**

Pepper doesn't text back after that. Natasha shows Loki the text and he chuckles, "You're torturing them."

"Serves them right. Everyone's been acting weird."

She lets Loki head downstairs to the workshop without her while she changes into something considerably more comfortable. She wipes off her lipstick and removes the pins from her hair, running her hands through her hair several times to make sure it will stay swept back and out of her face. When she's finished, she heads to her office next to pull the files Pepper had dropped off for her from the safe hidden behind a section of bookcase.

Downstairs, she finds Loki is already inspecting the disassembled parts of the new suit. When he looks up, he arches a brow at the folders under her arm. "Since when do you carry around actual _paper_work?"

She shrugs and drops the stack next to him on the workstation, smacking his hand away when he reaches for it. "It's too sensitive to be digital," she explains, dragging her chair closer so she can start looking into the first folder. It's almost like being back at school—only she never had any real need to do homework in school since she tested out of almost everything.

"What is it?" Loki asks, hovering over her shoulder.

"Something I'm working on with an old colleague of mine," Natasha replies evasively, focusing on the data on the page.

"Extremis? What's Extremis?"

"Don't worry about—how—?" Natasha sits up, twisting to see that a folder has somehow materialized in his hands. "Goddammit! Do you have to touch everything?"

Loki lets the folder droop in his hand and looks down at her with a lazy smirk. She snatches it away with a huff and Loki tucks his hands into his pockets. "Are you going to be working all night?"

"That was the plan."

"I'll be back in a few hours, then, to make sure you get to bed."

She looks back, frowning. "Where are you going?"

His cheek does an odd twitch and his smile looks strained. "It's late, but Pepper wanted me to stop by and see her after dinner."

Natasha hums and nods, turning back to Maya's notes. "Hmm. Sounds like an ambush. Be careful."

"Happy will be there. He'll protect me."

Natasha grins and thinks she feels his hand brush against her shoulder before he's gone.

* * *

"Babe, you're making _me_ worried."

Loki materializes just inside the shared apartment of Happy Hogan and Pepper Potts before a response can be made to the statement. The couple is in their living room, Happy sitting comfortably in his armchair, alternating between watching the television and his girlfriend, who is pacing behind the couch with a harried look. They're both dressed comfortably in t-shirts and shorts but Loki doesn't feel out of place or overdressed.

Happy is the first to notice him, smiling and welcoming him with a wave. "Sweetie, Loki's here."

With a start, Pepper swivels to face Loki and she levels him with such intense scrutiny that Loki nearly falters a step.

Looking between Happy and Pepper, Loki clears his throat. "Did something happen?"

"She was going to chew ya out for ditchin' us for two weeks. She's been practicin' a speech," Happy explains with a cheery smile.

Pepper cuts him a glare and reaches out to smack him upside the head. He laughs, unbothered, and turns back to the television. When she turns to look at Loki, she's not nearly as angry as he'd expect—or her voicemails had indicated—but she looks upset.

"You left," she says simply.

Loki looks between the two again before trying to settle himself more comfortably in the space of their home, hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed. He nods. "I did. I apologize. It was necessary, however. Natasha understands."

Hesitant, Pepper nods then glances at the back of Happy's head. Biting her lip, she says, "Join me in the hall, please. I'd like a word."

She doesn't wait for him to say anything, walking past him to lead them out of the apartment and into the hall, shutting the door quietly behind her. He frowns as he studies the conflict in her eyes and her pursed lips.

"Is this something we can't discuss in front of Happy?" There was very little that Pepper wouldn't discuss in front of Happy so Loki felt there might be cause for concern.

Pepper meets his eyes and it feels like he's being pinned. He will forever be amazed by the inner strength inside this woman—enough to carry herself and Natasha through all they've been through. "There's something wrong with Natasha."

Loki feels something unfamiliar and cold settle inside him. He takes a moment to adjust to this before addressing Pepper. "More than the sleep deprivation?"

"She's been moody. Temperamental. At least, according to Bruce and Peter."

"Parker?" Loki asks unnecessarily. Then, confused, he asks, "Why are you telling me? She seemed fine. _Tired_. But fine."

"She's _not_ fine. Morgan says she's been …" Pepper inhales deeply, something frenzied in her eyes. He tries not to linger on his distaste of Natasha's cousin and waits for Pepper to finish. "She's been talking. To … her _parents."_

Stunned, Loki shakes his head, "I don't … understand. What do you mean? Her parents are dead."

"Yes. _Obviously,"_ Pepper snaps, exasperated and anxious. She sighs. "She's—I think she's _drinking_ again."

"She's always drank."

"Loki, Natasha's father was a _heavy_ alcoholic and Natasha—" Pepper swallows as her voice begins to shake, looking away. "Natasha can be a lot like him, in that sense."

He tries to understand where Pepper's concern is coming from but he's never seen Natasha as anything but controlled, even while inebriated. The number of times he's seen her façade crack could be counted on one hand, but that's only because he's known her for more than a year and in that time they've spent nearly every moment of it together or in contact with each other. Next to Pepper, Rhodey and Happy, Loki would like to think that he knows Natasha fairly well. Natasha doesn't share much of herself with anyone—not even Pepper. Most of what is known about her has to be deduced, but as was evident tonight—and even a year ago when he'd returned—Natasha trusted him with her thoughts, even if she had no faith in his words. It wasn't like he could fault her, after all—he was the God of Lies.

There was understanding between them—an openness that Loki had never shared with another if only because no one had the ability to _listen. _She was a woman of logic; there was something systematic about her thoughts and the way she carried herself, not unlike her machines. But she also didn't shy away from what was new—_different_—and it was like she could switch of her sense of morality to focus on the science and this is something that made people uncomfortable—something that made her _fascinating_ to Loki. She understands him effortlessly and doesn't waste her breath trying to change him into something that he isn't. In Asgard, he had never been enough—was always the outcast—but Natasha had carved out a place for him without a word and she'd let him _be._

"Loki," Pepper says quietly, pleadingly, and it draws his focus outward from his thoughts and back to her. "Please. Look after her."

He offers Pepper only his silence, but she seems to understand.

"Thank you," she murmurs, turning to slip back into her apartment quietly.

* * *

He doesn't return to the penthouse after speaking with Pepper—needs time to sort out his thoughts—but he doesn't get long before the night is interrupted by the sharp cracks of gunfire. With a sense of annoyance, Loki follows the sounds until he comes across a street gang squaring off in an alley against …

Spiderman.

He doesn't know why his annoyance flares up again seeing the masked vigilante swinging between fire escapes and rooftops to avoid the rein of bullets. Pretty soon, the noise will have attracted the NYPD and according to Natasha, the young Spiderman was considered just as much of a criminal as the ones he was struggling so valiantly against—meaning the police would probably try to take him in, as well, and Natasha didn't want that.

One of the men proves to be more than a mere human when he lashes out with a fist that becomes a wave of sand and sends Spiderman flying down the alley and into a trashcan. Loki recognizes the characteristics of the man's abilities by the file Natasha had created on the new super-human.

With a snort and a twist of his hands, the humans and the Sandman are sudden immobilized, paralyzed grips causing guns to tumble out of their hands.

"What the—?" Spiderman lands on the filthy concrete in a crouch, canting his head curiously at his assailants. Loki is already in full Asgardian regalia when he materializes behind the paralyzed men to reveal himself before Spiderman. He isn't expecting it when the boy straightens and shouts accusingly, "You!"

Further irritated, Loki sneers, waving his hand to cast a silent spell over the gang that would put them to sleep. Absently, Loki mutters, "I sometimes wonder: what ever happened to honorifics?" The men slump to the ground when Loki releases their paralysis. Spiderman seems to realize that they are alone, and even if the criminals would have been disinclined to aid him, Spiderman somehow seems to sense that Loki is someone to be feared. Loki smirks coldly, "Once upon a time, it used to be Sir Loki. Or, Your Honor. Even _Mr._ Loki would suffice."

Spiderman shifts nervously and says, "Uh—I think they went out the year Kennedy refused to wear a hat for the Presidential Inauguration."

Startled, Loki frowns. "What?"

The boy waves his hand dismissively, shaking his head. "Never mind. Skip it. That's not important because—" He jabs a finger in Loki's direction, suddenly regaining his confidence. "I know who you are!"

Loki merely arches a brow, unimpressed. "Do you?"

"You're the one who brought those aliens here—tried to wipe us out. You were on the news! I saw it. I remember!"

He has to applaud the human for making the connection when none of the others had. The day that he had been shipped back to Asgard with Thor and the Tesseract, there had been an ensemble of reporters present—Natasha's doing, of course. But humans saw what they wanted to see, and though occasionally he garnered a double-take or a confused 'have we met?', none had yet identified him as the criminal who'd nearly conquered the planet Earth.

"What are you up to?" Spiderman demands, making an attempt to sound threatening.

Loki sneers. "I do not answer questions from bags of mortal flesh that die and rot and turn to _dust."_

Spiderman balks, stuttering, "W-well, if you're gunna get _personal …"_

"It doesn't matter. Leave, now. I have no business with you." Loki steps forward until he comes to stand over the Sandman. Unconscious, the man's body retains its shape, but there are flecks of sand along his skin like he's been rolling around on a beach.

"What do you want with him?" Spiderman demands urgently.

"Oh? Are you _worried_ I'll hurt him?" Loki throws him an incredulous look, smirking. "He wanted you _dead_. I'm not sure your sentiments are appreciated."

Spiderman snorts, setting his hands on his hips in an outrageously confident pose. "_Buddy_—between you and the Sandman, here, I'm more concerned with the Asgardian God who all but wiped New York off the _map_."

Loki's eyes narrow and he straightens, studying Spiderman with more care. "You're awfully well-informed." Spiderman shifts defensively and Loki sniffs, rolling his eyes. "But I have no time to waste on you. If you'll excuse me—I have a criminal to deliver. Unfortunately, I cannot be seen as having been involved, so if you don't mind … ?"

"Unbelievable!" Spiderman balks.

Loki merely stares back at him until the young man relents and spins a thick web around the Sandman's comatose form.

Before he returns to the Tower, Loki pays a visit to Phil Coulson's department to deliver his package. The man is alone and he doesn't question why the Sandman is cocooned in synthetic web—merely offers a nod of appreciation and then Loki is gone.

* * *

**End Notes: **Alrighty, well that's the last one for now. I didn't realize this one was also a biggy because of all the dialogue, but I guess you guys won't be complaining, huh? This is the last of what I wrote up while my laptop was down so the next chapter will be posted by the end of the week. Don't forget to drop a comment and have a great weekend!


	9. You Put the Gun in Your Mouth to Bite

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **When the shit hits the fan ...

* * *

Chapter Eight:

_You Put the Gun in Your Mouth to Bite_

"Your suit needs to be better equipped to handle the cold."

Natasha looks up from her computers to look across the workshop at Loki where he's plucking through her dismantled suit with vague interest. Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "Why?"

Without preamble, Loki grabs a plate of armor from the station and holds it between his fingers like it's a curiosity—and then, to her horror, she sees the plate take on thin layer of ice, frosting over completely then _crumbling_ in his fingers like particles of sand.

"Oh my—_Loki!_" She's around her computers and scrambling over to her armor in a second, wedging herself between Loki and the desk before he can cause more damage. Horrified, she stares down at the disintegrated remains of what was once an armguard. "Do you know how much that's going to cost to _replace_?"

Loki doesn't sound bothered. "Not more than it would cost you to replace the entire suit if the same were to occur."

She glares up at him, "Yeah? Well, I'm not anticipating running into any _Frost Giants_ here on _Midgard_, thanks."

Loki slips his hands into his pockets and smirks. "There's _me_."

She mimics the smirk with a mocking sneer, "Yes. And if you're going to go around destroying my suits I'm just going to hand you over to _Fury_." He seems amused more than bothered by the threat and Natasha looks back to the pile of frozen metal shards. "Jesus. I can't believe you did that."

"You should be thanking me."

She snorts. "I should be _charging_ you."

"I guess distance really _does_ make the heart grow fonder."

As one, Natasha and Loki look behind him to see Pepper approaching them with a smirk. Natasha grimaces, "Hey, Pep—wait. What?"

Pepper looks between them and laughs as she comes to stand before them. "Two weeks without seeing each other and now you two are practically attached at the _hip_."

Natasha balks. "That's not …"

"I'm just helping Natasha," Loki explains.

Natasha nods, "At least until one of us gets a lead. Besides—"

"You told me I was to stay with her until Morgan was gone."

Pepper laughs again, shaking her head. "Aw, that's cute. You're even finishing each other's sentences." Natasha and Loki share a frown and Pepper smiles apologetically. "Okay. I'll stop. Sorry. I'm actually here for business. Natasha, Mrs. Arbogast is giving me hell because you haven't been returning any of the calls she's been forwarding to you."

Natasha groans in exasperation, moving away from Loki to collect sections of armor on the desk. "Well, between the suit and the Bruce thing and my work with Maya—things have been really busy."

"I know. I understand. But you can't just pop in and out of the company. You're either committed or you're not. It's problematic, otherwise."

Natasha rolls her eyes, nodding, "Yeah, yeah. I get it."

She makes her way back to her computers and hears Loki and Pepper follow behind her. Scrapping the program she had running, Natasha starts up a new project and begins running calculations in her head that take her only a few seconds to translate into code the software will understand.

After a beat of companionable silence, Pepper asks, "Where's Peter? I have some things for him."

Distractedly, Natasha answers, "He'll be out of school in a few hours. I told him to meet me here."

"Uh, _no._ You have an _inspection_ in a couple of hours, Natasha. Did you forget?"

Natasha blinks, her fingers never pausing over her keyboard. "Oh. Huh. Guess I did."

"And Peter doesn't have a permit to visit the factory. He's still a minor."

Unexpectedly, Loki says, "I can be here, if you'd like. I'll give him whatever it is you need passed along."

Pepper is just as surprised as Natasha, who looks up from her computer to stare at the Asgardian, certain she must have misheard. Pepper looks from Natasha, then back to Loki, blinking. "Really?"

Loki smiles pleasantly. "Of course."

"Kiss-ass," Natasha mouthes at him when his eyes dart to meet hers.

Pepper looks skeptical but she hands over the tablet she always seems to be carrying with her. "That'd be great, Loki. Thank you."

"It's no problem, Ms. Potts," Loki replies, graciously accepting the tablet with another smile. Natasha is _incredibly _suspicious.

She snorts, turning back to her computer with an incredulous shake of her head. "Well, if you're going to be here anyway—I'm going to have JARVIS render out a few models with the … _revised_ specs."

"You're taking my advice?" Loki asks, sounding amused but unsurprised. "How novel."

Natasha sniffs, reaching out blindly, hand curling around something small, cool and spherical. It looks only like a metal paperweight but it's light and she types a few more things into her computer one-handed and says, begrudgingly, "You didn't leave me with much of a choice."

"You want me to instruct JARVIS on the degree of resistance necessary to compensate for the frost," Loki deducts easily.

She cuts her eyes back to him and smirks. "Unless you have a problem with JARVIS 'probing' you."

He returns the smirk, stepping closer to her station, "No. It's only you I have that problem with."

"_What_ are you guys talking about?" Pepper balks.

Natasha grins at her. "Loki's paranoid I want to cut him open and study him."

"It's not so unreasonable a concern," Loki argues.

Pepper shakes her head and mutters something like 'children' before she turns an authoritative look to Natasha. "I agree with Loki. Scalpel's away. No cutting open of _anyone_, you hear?"

Natasha frowns at Loki, "Tattle-tale."

Loki ignores her to smile gratefully at Pepper. "Pepper, thank you."

"Anytime," Pepper smiles at him quickly, then nodding to Natasha, "Natasha, two hours, then we need to go. I'll be back. You two behave."

Pepper leaves and Natasha turns back to her computer, rolling the metal sphere in her palm idly. "Dude—I think she likes you again."

Loki chuckles. "She certainly seemed more amiable to my presence."

Without looking up, she waves him over and huffs, "Maybe Happy put in a good word?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

She hums thoughtfully and when Loki is next to her she takes his hand and presses the metal sphere into his palm. "Now, hold _this_ and—" She looks up and studies his face—sees him blink slowly in reaction and nothing more.

Then, swiftly, his eyes narrow. "What was that?"

She removes the sphere from his hand and inspects it—sees the little needle that had appeared along an opening before it disappears back into the sphere. She smiles up at him innocently, "That didn't hurt, did it?"

"No," Loki grinds out in irritation, glaring, "It didn't hurt."

* * *

"Hey."

Pepper starts at the voice and looks up from her phone to see Bruce walking towards her on his way to the elevators. She smiles, "Hey."

They meet in the middle of the lobby and stop, Pepper tucking her phone away politely and Bruce grimacing as he leans in to murmur, "Are they downstairs?"

Pepper laughs. "Are you avoiding them?"

He sighs, looking adorably put upon by these recent events. "It's just a little weird, now."

"Well, if you ignore the fact that they were trying to kill each other a year ago—not _that_ weird."

He frowns. "And is it just me or are they more … _handsy_ than usual?"

"It's not just you," Pepper smiles, thinking about how often she's caught Loki with a hand to Natasha's arm almost subconsciously and how Natasha's taken to standing closer to Loki than usual. "I think maybe they just missed each other. They don't usually go so long without seeing each other."

It's been a day and she doesn't think the two have been apart for longer than an _hour. _Not that it made it _normal_, by any means, but she isn't sure either is aware of just how _inappropriate_ their friendship—let alone a _relationship—_would seem.

Bruce groans like the thought disturbs him.

Pepper reaches out to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "They're still just as clueless as ever, though—so, there's _that."_

Bruce nods miserably and then offers a strained smile before he starts for the elevators. Before Pepper has taken a step, however, he twists and says, "Oh. Hey. I had a run in with Natasha's cousin—Morgan?" Pepper cringes and nods. Bruce frowns, "Yeah. What's that guy's deal? He's a bit of an … _asshole."_

That doesn't even _begin_ to describe Morgan. "He's _beyond_ asshole. He's in a category all his own. What did he say?"

Bruce shrugs. "Nothing, really. He was just going on about all the trash and Natasha taking in so many strays and saying things would be … _different._ When—uh, I guess, when _he's_ running the company."

Pepper rolls her eyes in disgust. "He always says things like that. He's a degenerate loser after Natasha's company and fortune."

"Does Natasha know that?" Pepper confirms with another and Bruce frowns. "Then why is she letting him stay?"

"_Because_—Morgan's all talk, for the most part. He's … _bad_ _breath,_ not cancer. If Natasha would just cut him from her life, things would be fine. But she won't."

"Why?"

For all that Pepper knows about Natasha, this is the one thing that Natasha had never truly explained. She kept the matters of her family closely guarded and what Pepper knew was derived from what she'd learned from Rhodey and Obadiah. Every now and then Natasha would throw in a comment that spoke volumes of just how screwed up her relationship with her parents must have been, her father in particular, but Natasha had never explained why Morgan, of _everyone_, had always seemed to merit her unconditional forgiveness. No matter how often Morgan screwed up—no matter how much he hurt her—Natasha always welcomed him into her home. Morgan was a _liar_, always scheming against Natasha and searching for ways he could steal her title and the rights to her legacy—and Natasha always beat him, and she always forgave him. He was _toxic_, but Natasha didn't seem to care.

"He's family," Pepper says eventually because it's the only reason that makes sense. "He's her _only_ family and—well, Natasha didn't have a good relationship with her parents, but Morgan was someone she grew up with. She thinks of him as more of a brother than a cousin and it makes her stupid."

Bruce looks just as frustrated as Pepper feels. "Which Morgan takes advantage of?"

"Yes. He seems to think it's unfair that Natasha lives the charmed life she does when he feels he's more deserving."

Bruce balks, incredulous, "That's ridiculously. '_Charmed life'_? He's insane."

Pepper shrugs. "Well, we can only wait until he gets bored and moves on. With the way he's been spending at casinos—it's only a matter of time before he packs up and leaves."

It's a toxic cycle. People are so focused on their lives and how they perceive to have been wronged that they don't always recognize it. Natasha has always begrudged Steve Rogers for the shadow he'd cast over her that she never seemed to recognize that she was the one who's shadow Morgan couldn't seem to escape. It doesn't excuse what Morgan has done, but Pepper has seen what jealousy can turn people into and _that's_ why she can't trust Morgan.

* * *

The penthouse is empty when he arrives and Peter wonders if he might be early—or, worse, _late._ He steps further into the room cautiously, quietly taking a moment to admire the grandeur. He's not sure he'll ever get used to walking into this place—finds it hard to believe it could possibly be someone's _home_ when it resembles more a set piece on a luxurious movie about some fictional billionaire with more money than they can spend. Although, Natasha Stark is very _much_ a billionaire with more money than she can probably spend. Peter has seen her cars, so he knows.

If wealth had a face, it would be Natasha Stark.

The main room alone is extraordinary—a wide, cavernous space that feels endless as well as, somehow, _organic._ It feels like being in a museum—a museum dedicated to the life of Natasha Stark.

Only …

If he looks around, he doesn't really see any history. It's impossibly clean, every surface glossy and reflective; not a single thing appears to sit out of place. Even the bottle of brandy at the bar sits out on the counter like its place was carefully designated—the half-filled tumbler next to the bottle almost artistic. It's like looking into the pages of an architectural article—everything feels both luxurious and artificial. It's nothing like the house he shares with his Aunt, where every corner and every space is filled with something that speaks volumes about his family and the kind of people they were. Although, maybe the penthouse was doing just _that_—a fabricated veneer of wealth and class, the walls that separated the room from the rest of the world really only panes of glass, easily shattered. From the penthouse, you could look out at the world and one could almost imagine you could see _all_—and there is an illusion of being exposed by that great wall of glass, but from their vantage on the ground, it was impossible for people to look in.

A perfectly crafted façade of openness—when it might just be the most isolating place in the world.

Peter feels himself growing despondent with these thoughts, but he's promptly distracted when he hears the elevator door open.

He turns, expecting to greet his employer.

It's not.

Peter blurts out: "Oh, it's you."

Dressed in as expensive of a suit as one would expect of one in the service of Ms. Stark, Lucas Olson steps into the penthouse with a smirk. "That's _'Sir_ You, the Mighty' to you. And when you address me, it's His Holiness and 'please' and 'thank you'."

This has _got_ to be a joke. Peter frowns, shifting awkwardly as he faces off against the other man. He tries not to look too distressed by his company. "Well then, Your _Royal _Terror—what do you want? Ms. Stark isn't here."

"I know. I'm here to speak with _you, _Mr. Parker."

Peter's eyes narrow nervously and he doesn't step back, although the urge to flee is strong. " … Why?"

"Why do you _think,_ Mr. Parker?"

Peter swallows heavily. "I … I really wouldn't know, Mr. Olson."

"Oh, _now_ we remember our formalities, Mr. Parker?" The man sneers, "Or do you prefer _Spiderman?"_

Of all the worst case scenarios, this one had not even entered his mind. He feels his blood run cold and he's almost certain the temperature reflects that of the room as well. It's suddenly _freezing_, his breath frosting and the windows behind him creaking in complain.

Peter is almost completely at a loss for words. He fumbles several times, finally stuttering: "H-how—?"

The man's expression dissolves into a scowl. "I am not an idiot. Don't _treat_ me like one. You should never have challenged me, little spider. I don't take well to threats."

And suddenly Lucas Olson's normally amicable façade has crumbled and Peter sees Loki—sees the man he'd encountered only the night before and the one he's been convincing himself couldn't _really_ be Loki the _war criminal_ because then that would mean Ms. Stark …

Well, Peter didn't know _what_ that would mean.

He'd recognized Loki the instant Ms. Stark had introduced him as Lucas Olson (nearly had a panic attack when Ms. Stark had sent him off with the God so she could speak with Captain America in private), but he'd held his tongue and buried his fears because Iron Woman and Captain America had been standing there with him and they were the _heroes_ so—so …

Peter drops the clueless act and takes a shaky breath, matching Loki's scowl with his own. "What—what are you going to do?"

"Nothing, you imbecile," Loki replies frigidly, as if disgusted by the mere sight of Peter. "If I was going to kill you, I would not have bothered with the pleasantries."

Peter cringes and says, somewhat recklessly, "You consider any of this '_pleasant'_?"

Loki's expression is both unreadable and yet murderous, "Do not interfere with me, Mr. Parker, and I'll have no need to … _dispose_ of you. I can always resume my position as Natasha's assistant, if the need arise."

Part of him doesn't expect to survive this, so he asks anyway, "Why are you—?"

"I told you," Loki says with a sharpness to his tone. "I don't answer questions from _vermin."_

"Fine. Whatever," Peter mutters, shuffling his feet and trying not to look away. He's properly terrified—given what he knows and experienced _firsthand_ last year because of this man—but it's probably just as well that Loki doesn't know that, Spiderman or no, Peter's not willing to pit himself against Loki just yet. "Are you going to tell her?"

Instead of answering, Loki says, "Stay out of my way, Mr. Parker. You are a mere insect. I will crush you if you interfere with me in any way."

Then he's gone and Peter tries to remember how to breathe again.

* * *

As far as days go—as far as her life goes—yesterday was a pretty good day. Damn near _perfect_.

That should have been warning enough, considering the last several weeks of hell. It wasn't.

She realizes this later, but it's already too late.

The inspection goes well—nothing out of the ordinary. They wrap up shortly and Natasha meets up with Pepper and Happy at the car afterwards. They're sharing a coffee and warm smiles and Natasha is almost sentimental enough not to interrupt them but she's in a hurry to get home and get to work on her suit. Her headache from the last few days is returning and she thinks a strong cup of Loki's coffee will cure it.

She's thinking about how perfect a cup of coffee would be as she makes her way to Pepper and Happy, absently admiring the way they inhabit the same space in a way that makes it impossible to imagine them apart—when a thunderous _boom_ pulses out like a vicious wave, slamming against her back and sending her forward onto her hands and knees. Happy is next to her in what seems like an instant, helping her to her feet—but there's a piercing dial tone in her ears and her skin feels like its vibrating. She tastes a little bit of blood and thinks she might have bitten her lip or tongue in surprise but she doesn't feel any pain. Happy has an arm around her waist, tugging her backwards towards the car where Pepper is leaning heavily against the side of the vehicle, one hand clutched to the side of head tightly and face contorted in pain.

"What just happened?" Natasha grits out painfully, pushing Happy away gently so he can tend to Pepper. He backs away towards his future wife but his eyes are on something behind Natasha, wide with horror, and Natasha twists to follow his gaze.

The first thing she sees is the pregnant black cloud overhead, rumbling and twisting and coiling as if alive—and it takes her far too long to realize it's not a cloud, but _smoke_. She drops her gaze then—to the factory and the absolute _destruction._ The central building is the heart of the damage, a great maw carved out of its middle, facing the street, so that it was clear that the source of the eruption would have come from the reactor. The building was only four stories above ground, but the damage extends from its highest level to well below ground in an enormous crater. The structure itself stands for only a second longer after she's laid her eyes upon it—and then it shudders and begins to crumble inward and almost simultaneously, another explosions rocks the ground from the western-most building; it's considerably smaller and it caves under the damage immediately.

These two explosions seems to be the final trigger—the three remaining buildings go open with another resounding explosion. In a matter of minutes, everything has been demolished; her factory nothing more than great heaps of scrap and debris.

"There are … there were _people_ in those buildings, Natasha," Pepper exhales, horrified.

Something heavy and hard fits over Natasha like a suit of armor and even though her stomach twists in nausea and fear she is able to ignore it and cut her eyes to Happy. Happy nods and rushes for the trunk of the vehicle, drawing out her suitcase armor and delivering it to her feet.

She steps down on the suitcase and it comes to life, armor locking onto her foot, then the other as she steps forward with it, and the rest of the case flips upright, unfolding to reveal two gauntlets that prop themselves upward like pistons. There are grapples fitted into the gauntlets and Natasha bends to take hold of them, twisting them so the gauntlets are facing the same direction, then tugging backwards to build enough strength to punch down so the grapples lock into place inside the knuckles of the gauntlets and she feels metal begin to fold around each finger. With the additional strength of the gauntlets and the hydraulics built into the suit, she pulls up on the case and it unfolds once again, this time rising to the length of her body. The main section of the suitcase unfolds to reveal itself as the chest plate, locking over her chest, curling around her ribs and over her shoulders. She punches her arms out in opposite directions and the chest piece unlocks fully, armor aligning itself with her limbs and slotting into place over her biceps, calves and thighs, closing around each seamlessly. Plates of armor slide all around, finding their place—conforming to her body. Armor builds around her neck and upwards along the back of her skull.

The faceplate is the final piece to fall into place, dropping down her expressionless face and for a second there's only darkness-and then the suit powers on and her HUD is lighting up and its scanning the area around her and suddenly she can _see_ the damage in a way human eyes could not.

Statistics begin to load up on her HUD—injuries, casualties, total damage incurred to her property—but she doesn't read them because she doesn't want to think about how many lives she's just lost.

"Pepper, Happy," Iron Woman's voice calls out—emotionless and inhuman. Natasha locks onto the sound of her voice as it's filtered and neutralized through the suit and says, "Get out of here."

She hears them scrambling towards the car when she sees it—a vibrant beam of energy that lances out somewhere from within the wreckage. Natasha acts quickly, twisting so her back is to the beam and pulling Happy and Pepper into her arms to dive out of the way. It happens so quickly it feels like a mindless rush, but then she's kneeling on the ground over Pepper and Happy, palms flat against the car, gripping tight enough that her fingers carve furrows into the door. All three of them are gasping for breath and Natasha doesn't know why she suddenly feels like she's gone a round with the one of the Helicarrier's turbines until Pepper gasps:

"Your shoulder!"

Natasha twists her head to inspect the damage but she can't see anything. On her HUD, JARVIS wordlessly pulls up a wireframe image of her suit, zooming in on her left shoulder to show her the extent of the damage that energy beam had caused.

Quietly, JARVIS explains, "_Ma'am, the armor appears to have been … _melted_ off."_

She swallows heavily as the shock wears off and pain kicks in. Pepper sits up, terrified, reaching out to touch her shoulder then flinching away before she can. "Oh my god …"

"It's fine," Natasha grunts, sitting back on her haunches and trying not to scream in agony as she lowers her arms to her side. Her left shoulder feels hot and it _burns_ with a piercing sort of agony, like someone was carving designs into her flesh with acid and knives. She clears her throat and mutters. "I don't feel it. Just _go_."

"No! _No, _Natasha! No—!" Pepper's shaking her head even as Happy pulls himself to his feet and winds his arms around her waist to pull her away.

"_Get_ her _out_ of here!" Natasha screams at Happy and it silences Pepper at once and makes something grim fall over Happy's face. Natasha stands and turns away so she doesn't have to look at them, her eyes searching for the culprit as her HUD does the same. The HUD finds its target almost immediately, confidently striding through the wreckage towards Natasha. Natasha waits and scans the sub-terrain—sees a flooding of surviving factory personnel who've taken to escaping into the underground bunker since escaping to the surface is out of the question.

"And that was from three_ hundred_ yards," shouts a voice from a distance that JARVIS immediately amplifies so she can make it out clearly. "Imagine the damage I could inflict up close?"

Behind her, she hears the car tear away with a screeching of wheels and feels herself relax—by only a margin.

Her HUD runs a scan on the man for tech and weaponry while at the same time running a facial recognition scan. He doesn't try another attack and Natasha doesn't try to engage—her shoulder is _searing_ in agony and a part of her is trying to detach from the fact that there could be _hundreds_ of casualties laying beneath the rubble because of this psychopath and the fact that she hadn't prevented it.

Several yards away, the man comes to a halt. As the HUD determines its analysis, she studies the man before her with a cold, stifling, fury. Similarly to Otto Octavius, the man is wearing a chest harness that—rather than seemingly telepathic tentacles—features a circular device squarely at the man's diaphragm. "_It appears to be a magnetic induction field generator,"_ JARVIS explains solemnly. "_It can evidently project condensed beams of energy specific to a frequency that is capable of loosening the binding forces between iron atoms."_

"There's very little iron left in my suits," Natasha mutters calculatingly. "But apparently it's still enough for that thing to basically _liquefy_ me if I come into contact with it."

"_The frequency does not appear directly lethal to the human epidermis—"_

"Not enough iron in my body for his little blast to _melt_ me, but enough to do damage. Got it."

"_Precisely."_

"I thought you'd _call_," the man calls out, sneering. He's wearing shades over his eyes and it was making it hard to identify him.

"_Perhaps he has no prior criminal background,"_ JARVIS suggests when the scan lasts longer than a minute.

"Lord knows I've left you enough messages," the man continues, chatting as if speaking to a friend. Natasha feels her blood boil. "But you're always so _busy,_ aren't you, _Natasha?"_

Natasha moves then, raising an palm out in warning and angling her body to present less of herself to the man. "I'm sorry, only my _friends_ address me by 'Natasha' and I'm pretty sure I've never met you in my life—so if you don't mind? Just 'Iron Woman' will do."

Her response is a bark of laughter. "Of _course_ not," he laughs. "You probably don't even know my_ name_, you entitled _bitch._ It's Bruno Horgan—maybe you'll remember me when I'm beating the _shit_ out of you."

Natasha huffs humorlessly. "Yeah. Don't know you."

"You think this is a _joke?_ You're _dead_, Stark."

_No_, she thinks. _I don't._ She doesn't belay her anger, however, and says, "That's a lot of animosity you got there. You're not a woman, so I take it I didn't sleep with your husband."

"Bruno _Horgan_, you bitch! You should at least know my _name_—after all, you stole _everything_ from me!"

Energy gathers at the center of his harness and Natasha drops her arm and uses her thrusters to propel herself out of the way.

* * *

The N.Y. IronWorks factory is based on a man-made island outside of the city, hundreds of miles away from civilization. There are no bridges between it and the city so Happy's only escape route leads them to the little airport near the beach where Natasha's jet is still waiting. As they rush inside and alert the pilot to the situation, Pepper can already see helicopters approaching from a distance, no doubt reporters attracted by the chaos and Iron Woman alike. There had been no opportunity for the sirens to be initiated—the factory had come down building after building before anyone could have a chance to understand what was going on. The fact that the media was responding so quickly, however, assured her that there must have been at least _some_ survivors and that they had contacted the authorities.

Not that the NYPD stood much chance against what Natasha was now facing.

Pepper tries not to envision the sight of Natasha's shoulder, shoulder-plate completely disintegrated—as if _melted—_and the sight of the flesh bared underneath, indicative of just how much power could be behind that blast if it could cut through layers of metal and underarmor. Every time she blinks, the sight of the raw and blistering shoulder comes forward and she thinks she can almost _smell_ the burnt flesh.

They're cleared for takeoff and are in the skies quickly, but Pepper is no less worried. Natasha is still back there and—

Pepper has seen Natasha take on all manner of enemies since she took on the mantel of Iron Woman, but since New York—since the _Chitauri_—the criminals Natasha has faced have been almost _juvenile._

Whoever this man was—whatever he wanted—it had Pepper worried. Natasha was reckless. Natasha was _always_ reckless.

Against her better judgment, she pulls out her phone and makes a call she knows she might regret.

"_I didn't think you still had access to my direct line, Ms. Stark. This must be important."_

Pepper takes a breath and sees Happy making his way back from the cockpit, expression solemn. Carefully, she says, "This isn't Natasha. It's …"

_"Ms. Potts. This is … a surprise."_

She's terrifies and her stomach is in knots, but she pushes past all that and makes her voice firm.

"Director Fury. We need your help."

* * *

Worlds away, water ripples within the enchanted fountain and a gorgeous blond watches her handiwork with a smile. Bruno Horgan was an ape, but he was playing his part beautifully. But Iron Woman—

Natasha Stark was a pawn, but Iron Woman—Iron Woman is a _Queen._

The Queen is powerful only so long as she has her Knights and her Bishops to protect her. Alone and defenseless on the opponents side of the board—she is _weak._

And when the Queen falls …

So shall the King.

The woman sighs almost blissfully as she dips a finger into the water and watches the ripples form around the image of the Iron Avenger.

"Bishop takes pawn," she murmurs with unconcealed glee.

She cups a small handful of water and brings it to her lips, flattening her hand and pursuing her lips to blow—the water in her hands has become crystalline sand and it flutters away in a puff, twisting and coiling in a cloud before burning up in a bright green and dissolving altogether.

Softly, she chuckles, "Now, my little pawn, you become a _Queen."_

* * *

"Time to suit up."

Steve draws away from the punching bag to face his visitors. He's not surprised to see Agent Barton—he's frequently assigned missions with the archer—but he isn't expecting to see Agent Romanoff at his side, as well. They're both dressed in their signature attire which tells Steve that whatever new assignment they have for him, he should expect to head out immediately. At once, Steve begins to unwind the bandages from his fists as he crosses the room to the two agents and accepts the bag Barton offers containing his suit.

"The mission?" Steve asks as he bends to stow away his bandages and pull out his gear.

"Stark's in trouble," Agent Romanoff says.

Something inside him twists and he feels a flash that's both residual anger and shame. It's been two days but Steve still can't let Stark's words and accusations go.

Neither Barton nor Romanoff comment on the moment of hesitation if they see it. "This is coming down from the Director himself," Barton assures him, as if otherwise Steve might question the legitimacy of the order.

Agent Romanoff leaves the room, more for Steve's benefit than hers, and Steve begins to strip down so he can change into his uniform. He frowns at Barton as he changes and wonders, "Since when does Stark need help?"

Barton shrugs, nothing belayed in his expression. "We don't have much to go on, right now. The Director received a call from Stark's assistant—"

"Peter?" Steve asks, surprised as he fastens his belt around his waist.

Barton frowns, shaking his head uncertainly, "Uh—no? The—Potts woman. Uh—salt and—Pepper! Pepper was her name." He cants his head curiously, blinking. "Is Pepper really her name? Who names their kid 'Pepper'?"

"Ah—no," Steve shakes his head, smiling a little in bemusement. Barton had a tendency of switching between 'business-mode Agent Barton' and … something _else_ that was all Clint Barton. "I'm pretty sure that's a nickname. I think her name is Virginia."

The other man just shrugs again and then gives Steve a once-over. "Ready?"

Reaching down to grab his mask from the duffel, Steve nods, "Ready," and follows Barton out of the gym and upstairs to the roof where Agent Romanoff is waiting in a Quinjet.

* * *

The problem is—Natasha _really_ wants to bust this guy's face in. She wants to blast him head on with her repulsors and watch the force of them at full blast _destroy_ every last part of him.

But she's not a murderer.

Horgan has nothing in the way of a good defense—other than what he likes to call his 'Melting Ray'. It keeps her from getting too close but not far enough that she couldn't blast him good with her repulsors if she wanted to. Unfortunately, the man is basically armored in only a shirt and jeans—which, _really_, in terms of 'villain costumes', ranks rather low, comparatively. (Then again, Loki's Asgardian armor was pretty hard to beat). But with so little to protect him, Natasha realizes that there is very little she can use against him that wouldn't kill him. Missiles and bullets and lasers are out the question. She can set her repulsors to a low intensity, but the man is quick—every chance she uses to aim a repulsor at him, he uses her momentary pause to aim a Melting Ray at her.

She stays above him so she can keep out of range while she formulates a plan. While avoiding him isn't an issue, there's still a niggling fear that his Ray might catch her in the chest; she doesn't want to fathom what sort of effect that Ray would have on her arc-reactor.

Horgan is shouting something up at her but she's not listening—and then he's aiming another Ray at her and she prepares to dodge it—

But her vision goes black.

Then white.

And then her stomach is leaping to her throat and she _knows_ she's falling. She hears explosions in her ears and shouting but her HUD is dark and her suit is suddenly three times its normal weight. She lands on her back, hitting the ground hard enough she's feels _shattered_.

**_Now, my little pawn, you become a _****Queen.**

She's trapped in her suit and its _stifling_—her faceplate won't lift and she's _suffocating …_

"Oh, look at _this!_ The mighty Iron Woman has _fallen!"_ Horgan's voice sounds close.

And then something stomps down on her shoulder and she can't hold back a cry of pain—**_Get up. Get up, my Queen._****—**reacts by reaching out with her right hand and curling a hand around the source of the pressure pushing down on her wounded shoulder. She hears Horgan's shout of surprise and pain and her HUD comes back on so she sees him standing over her, foot digging into her left shoulder. Her hand tightens around his calf and with a snarl she swings him away, sending him flying in the opposite direction, barely restraining her strength at the last second.

She rolls onto her knees and forces herself to stand. As she straightens her back she loses her balance for a second and stumbles forward a step.

Before she's caught her breath, her HUD lights up and JARVIS says, "_Ma'am, you have incoming. It's S.H.I.E.L.D."_

Pepper.

She follows her HUD and cranes her neck back to see the Quinjet's descend on open space behind her. There's an incoming call to her suit that pops up on her HUD that Natasha hesitates before allowing.

"_Heard you were in trouble, but it seems you've already got everything under control."_ Barton's voice comes in, amused.

**_It's not over yet._**

It takes Natasha a moment to realize she's _shaking_—when she becomes aware of it, it's suddenly as if she's convulsing in her suit, even though she knows that's not the case. Her pain is nauseating and blinding and her head is thrumming and—

"_Stark? You copy?"_ Barton tries again, curiously.

Natasha blinks several times and gives her head a shake to clear her thoughts. "Yeah, I—uh—"

Horgan is sitting up, slowly. He's moderately athletic, but he's clearly not cut of the same cloth from the likes of the men Natasha's contended with. He's just _human._ He's an ordinary human and Natasha can take him, but—

Her vision goes dark again—then twists and she sees something like green flames then a red lipped smile and blonde curls and menacing green eyes.

"Hey!" Someone is speaking loudly next to her, tugging back on her good shoulder. She realizes she's fallen to one knee and she looks up to meet Barton's polarized shades and the reflection of Iron Woman's faceplate in them. Barton's brows furrow over his sunglasses. "Stark? What the hell is wrong with you?"

She's not listening—she sees Horgan charge up his harness; he aims it at Widow who's approaching him with a pistol drawn and ordering him to stand down. The Captain sees the threat just as quickly and he's moving forward, stepping into Agent Romanoff's way and Horgan responds to the sudden movement of the Captain with panic and from nearly two hundred yards away, the Ray blasts out of his harness and the Captain reacts by pulling up his shield for protection. Natasha feels her stomach bottom out in that second—sees the legendary striped shield and doesn't think, only reacts. She doesn't realize she's shouted, "Cap!_"_ as her thrusters ignite and propel her forward. She barrels into Rogers' side a second before her HUD's alarms blare—feels a searing along her flank and then the crash as she and the Captain hit the ground with a strong enough impact to jar her for a second and distract her from the pain in her side.

She pushes away from the Captain at once so she can curl into her side, tightening her teeth together so no sound can escape.

An eternity of agony later, something tugs at her good shoulder—urges her to sit up—but the pain is too great. She wants to be _sick _and her body feels suddenly chilled except for the patches of her skin that are on _fire._ She's shivering inside her suit and sweating profusely—her mind thrums and a melodious voice whispers sweetly in the back of her mind.

"… Stark! _Stark!"_ The Captain is shouting—a distant sound. He shakes her and she hears a whine escape her teeth but she keeps herself on her knees, bowed and one hand hovering tentatively her exposed side. "Iron Woman!" Rogers shouts and this finally gets her attention.

She reaches up only to swat away at his hand weakly, grunting at the ground, "Melter … he—don't let that Ray hit your shield. Melts … metal …"

Belatedly, she realizes that the shield is made of _vibranium_, not iron.

She'd panicked and it had cost her.

"But your … ?" Rogers trails off and then he's speaking again, but it isn't directed at Natasha. "Widow. Hawkeye. Iron Woman is down." Natasha grunts in protests and tries to straighten her back but she only succeeds in stretching the seared flesh on her side and she has to bite back a scream. Rogers ignores her. "She says that 'Ray' is some sort of metal-melting device. It's completely dissolved parts of her armor. It looks to be effective against skin, too. We need to disable it."

"Not gunna be a problem," Natasha hears Barton say. "He looks like he's going to be staying down."

She can almost sense it when Rogers turns his attention back to her—she doesn't have to look up—and she feels her body sag forward towards the ground just a little without actually collapsing.

"Iron Woman," Rogers' is saying and it sounds like he's speaking through a funnel and her ears are stuffed with cotton. "We're going to …"

Her HUD blinks out—or maybe it's her vision again. She lets out a breath and a soft voice whispers:

**_It's time to play._**

* * *

Steve isn't prepared for it when Iron Woman's arm lashes out and her forearm connects with his collarbone, sending him flying backwards.

"What the …?" Steve hears Hawkeye call out.

Steve sits up and is on his feet without allowing himself to linger on the dull thrum of pain from Stark's blow, shield still clutched in his right hand and prepared, this time. He's pissed—expects that this is Stark being her typical spiteful self after their fight the other day. She needs medical attention, however, and he's finished dealing with her attitude—but then he sees that Iron Woman is standing and has both palms out, repulsors charging and aimed at Hawkeye and something seems _wrong._

"Stark! Have you finally _lost_ it? What the fuck?" Hawkeye shouts, notching his bow and taking aim with a specialty arrow. Behind him, Black Widow has subdued the criminal and is rushing him towards the Quinjet.

Iron Woman releases both repulsor blasts and Hawkeye dives out of the way—doesn't completely dodge the blasts and is knocked to his back by the aftershocks. Steve scowls, raising his shield, "Stark! Stand down!"

Instead of replying, Iron Woman twists and raises her left hand to aim a repulsor at him. There's no hesitation when she releases the blast and Steve brings up his shield just in time to repel it, digging his feet into the ground to keep himself from succumbing to the force. There's a consecutive blast that follows the first and this time she aims it at the ground under his feet, knocking him back. He rolls to his feet in an instant to see her advancing on him—and then an arrow strikes her uninjured flank and explodes, sending her stumbling to her knees. Over her slumped form, Steve sees Hawkeye, bow up and second arrow notched.

"That was a warning shot," Hawkeye calls out. "Stand down or we'll have to _take_ you down."

After a second of silence, Iron Woman raises her hand again and aims at Hawkeye and says:

"Initialize the power sequence."

* * *

"O-okay! Okay!"

The sweat and grime is something she's had to grow accustomed to—the constant feel of fine sand coating her skin like armor—but it's suddenly insufferable and she feels anxious and nervous and terrified. She's immobile with the heavy suit settled over her body and she tries to ignore the strain—is successful only because there's the very real panic of men with guns lurking just a little ways further into the caves. Natasha watches Yinsen work to connect the wiring along her arms and chest and feels her heart stuttering a painful beat against her bruised chest—the raw flesh around the arc-reactor itches and aches all at once.

Impatiently, she snaps, "Now!"

Yinsen starts, twisting backwards to hunch over the computer, hands hovering over the keyboard almost blindly. "Tell me, tell me."

"Function Eleven," Natasha says slowly, swallowing past her panic and tasting iron. "Tell me when you see a progress bar." She's growing more terrified with every passing second and it doesn't help that she can see an identical terror in her fellow prisoner. The explosion that the guards had triggered would have alerted the guards—more than likely, there was a small army of terrorists headed their way now. They didn't have time to waste. "It should be up right now," Natasha bites out, trying to remember her composure. Yinsen's response is a murmur and she can't make it out over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. She snaps again, "Talk to me—_talk_ to me! Tell me when you see it!"

"I have it."

"Press 'Control' 'I',".

Yinsen's fingers move swiftly—but it's not fast enough. "'I'. Got it."

She exhales through her nose and closes her eyes—_focus._ "'I'—'Enter'. 'I' and 'Enter'—"

"Okay—"

"Come over here and button me up."

"All right," Yinsen stutters, and when he turns, Natasha sees tears gathered in his eyes. There are shouts echoing from further into the tunnels and Yinsen's eyes dart between her chest armor and the exit.

In a calmer voice, Natasha reminds him unnecessarily, "Every other hex bolt."

"They're coming!" Yinsen whimpers but he does as she instructs, the power drill tightening each bolt.

"Nothing pretty," Natasha says quietly, soothingly, eyes on Yinsen's face, urging him to look at her. "Just get it done."

"They're _coming_."

"Just get it _done_," Natasha repeats. "Make sure the checkpoints are clear before you follow me out, okay?"

Yinsen isn't listening.

He turns to check the progress on the computer and Natasha can see that they're barely past the half-way mark. She doesn't hear what Yinsen's says—is distracted by the sounds of shouting and the stomping of feet.

"Hey," she calls to Yinsen, feeling herself panic when he doesn't immediately respond. She can't afford him losing his resolve now. Everything is riding on—

Yinsen turns and his eyes are clear when they meet hers. "I'm going to buy you some time."

She doesn't cry. She doesn't cry but everything is falling apart and— "Stick to the plan!" Yinsen ignores her, running past her beyond her field of vision and she's trapped—locked into the goddamn suit that's supposed to _save their lives!_ "Stick to the _plan_!" She cries out—but her words are cut off by the sound of rapid gunfire and her eyes widen and her throat constricts and she pushes against the suit but it holds her in place. "Yinsen!"

* * *

Loki meets them at the airport, of course.

He frowns when he notices the evidently missing presence of Natasha.

"Where's—"

"Something happened," Pepper blurts out before she can string together something more coherent. She sees Loki straighten, suddenly alert, and she bites her lip anxiously. "There was an attack. Someone attacked the factory."

He doesn't exactly relax, but he doesn't seem particularly worried—which was understandable, because normally Natasha was very capable of handling her own, but _somehow …_

"Loki," Pepper says reluctantly, feeling guilty enough without having to admit it out loud. She looks away and says, "I called Fury."

His response is silence. Happy joins her at her side and she immediately takes his hand, which he squeezes in silent reassurance.

"It was bad," she goes on, subdued. "It was really bad. And you—I should have called you. I don't know why I didn't but you said—and I figured—and—"

"It's fine," Loki says at last, strangely calm. She looks up at him and expects a smirk or a smile but receives nothing. His eyes flick to Happy and he nods. "You two should head home. I'll be back."

* * *

"Yinsen!"

"What the hell?" Hawkeye barks, ducking and rolling out of the way as Iron Woman releases a miniature missile at him. It streaks past the agent and strikes the debris, erupting in an instant. Steve is at Hawkeye's side in a moment, helping him to his feet just as the Widow joins the fray.

Iron Woman twists and aims a repulsor at the Widow but the agent ducks out of the way while still sprinting towards the renegade hero. Agent Romanoff moves like water, twisting and ducking out of Iron Woman's line of sight until she manages to maneuver herself behind Stark to deliver a fist to Stark's injured side. Steve hears Stark grunt and he takes his opportunity to strike, drawing back his shield and then releasing it with as much strength as he's willing to muster. The shield whistles as it cuts air and arcs towards Iron Woman—then Stark stands up and she parries the shield with an arm, knocking the shield off its course. She aims a palm at Steve and it glows with repulsor energy—and then Hawkeye catches her with another arrow, nestled expertly at her shoulder joint.

There's no explosion. Iron Woman's arm jerks and Steve sees a film of frost glaze outward from the arrow, spreading slowly down her arm and over her good shoulder.

And then she raises her left hand and blasts the ground out from underneath Hawkeye.

The shield is discarded on the ground and Steve's glances to it before falling into a crouch so he can prepare a charge towards Stark. The Widow has put distance between herself and Iron Woman, her pistol drawn and aimed at the former Avenger. Iron Woman swivels and aims her palm at the Black Widow and Steve sprints forward, dives for his shield, and sends it spinning from his hand just as Iron Woman releases a repulsor blast towards Agent Romanoff. The shield intersects the repulsor and is flung across the field into the mound of debris as a result of the impact. In the meantime, the Widow has moved, rushing to join Hawkeye so they could formulate a plan of attack.

Steve is panting as he hauls himself up to his feet; across from him, Hawkeye and Black Widow look equally exhausted. Steve knows that Stark does not have the endurance for this kind of fight, but as long as her suit can move, she's going to fight.

(And _why _they're fighting is beyond him, but he can't think about the 'why' right now, because if he does, he'll lose focus.)

Steve's eyes meet Widow's across the field and they share a nod.

That's when Loki appears, directly behind Stark, taking her by the frozen shoulder and then—

The suit seems to freeze over, and then promptly disintegrate as if to ash. Without her suit, Stark is left in a dark, full-body underarmor. She rocks on her feet for a moment then falls forward, crumpling to the ground as if the last of her strength had left her in a breath. Steve sees only a glimpse of her face before she collapses but he can tell in that instant that she is unconscious before she hits the dirt.

For one long moment, it's absolutely silent—absolutely still.

And then Loki's hand darts up and catches an arrow millimeters from his face.

Behind him, Steve sees Barton lower his bow and shrug at a frowning Romanoff.

Loki drops the arrow without acknowledging them, his eyes on Stark's prone body.

"She attacked _us_," Steve explains, though he doesn't know why he's bothering.

This only makes Loki frown, but he says nothing and bends down to take her arm and swing it over his shoulders, curling an arm around her waist as he straightens.

And then both he and Stark are gone, disappearing into the air.

* * *

**End Notes**: Well, once things are sorted, she's probably going to kill him for destroying that suit, even if its a bit outdated now. I don't know how many of you guys are familiar with the Melter. I'll get more into his backstory (not too much, though) in the next chapter. Anyway, Bruno Horgan, a.k.a the Melter, has been mentioned a few times in earlier chapters. So, there's been some build up on his side before he finally snapped and attacked Natasha, but we'll learn more about that in the next chapter.

Anyway, Happy Valentines day, everybody. Here's another chapter! I'm working on the next one. I want to get it out by this weekend because this is a terrible cliffy. Thanks for all those lovely comments. You guys have just blown my mind with all your support and wonderful words. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, _"_Thank you. I love you."

On a side, this was brought up a couple times to me but I'd like everyone to bear in mind that _yes_, this fic has a higher rating than the first one. That is both for the increase in violent content, considerably darker themes and future sexual content. While I haven't determined how explicit that sexual content should be given that it needs to flow with the overall story and feel natural, it _will_ be there and I've rated this story accordingly. I will warn you guys again when I feel content may be too graphic, because I'm really more worried about the violence than with anybody getting squeamish over sex. This is still technically FrostIron, after all.


	10. Burning Through the Bloodline

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Revelation.

* * *

Chapter Nine:

_Burning Through the Bloodline (Cutting Down the Family Tree)_

They're talking around her like she isn't even in the room. It should be infuriating, but it's not. She feels a sense of irony, but trying to understand _why_ is like trying to remember an emotion from a dream—foggy and distant.

She'd awoken to a foreign room and familiar faces—the walls white and windowless and the bed she's laying upon the only other piece of furniture in the room except for the medical cart at the foot of her bed and IV stand to her right. She's propped up against a single pillow, folded at her lower back, the wall cool against the curl of her upper back and the inflamed skin under the bandages patched over her left shoulder. The overhead lights are almost blindingly white, evaporating nearly every shadow in the room. She's in a hospital gown—and if that weren't humiliating enough, her right wrist is cuffed to the rail that barricades her hospital bed

Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff flank the foot of the bed, arms crossed and stern eyes on her. Pepper and Coulson keep throwing her puppy dog looks of concern and Loki's in the corner looking like he's preparing for the invasion of Normandy. Natasha tugs uselessly at her restraint and the cuffs rattle along the thin rail with sharp clarity, distracting the others from their conversation long enough to look her way. She thinks she should find it humorous—that in a room with three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and a _God_ they'd have to restrain _her_—but it's not. She feels muted—like her mind can't find a direction and she's caught at the crossroads, waiting.

"He managed a manufacturing company that specialized in weaponry and munitions. It fell into bankruptcy when they failed a government safety inspection. They were using inferior materials and the defense contracts were later awarded to Stark Industries," Coulson is explaining quietly, leaning closer to Pepper as if in an effort to maintain a semblance of discretion. Natasha snorts and rolls her eyes and Coulson and Pepper take another pause; Barton and Romanoff don't seem to blink, watching Natasha as if expecting a struggle.

Pepper frowns at Coulson. "But it's been _years_ since we—"

Coulson nods. "I understand. Still, it seems _that_ would be the reason behind his grudge against Ms. Stark."

"That's … that's _monstrous."_

"Right now, we have the NYPD, FDNY and several of our own covering the site. It looks like most people took cover underground."

After a minute, Pepper clears her throat, murmuring, "And … is there an estimate … ?"

Natasha doesn't wait for Coulson to respond—can remember with absolute clarity the statistics as they'd appeared on her HUD. "For the main facility, there were no survivors from floors two, three and four. The West Tower lost everyone above the third floor. The last three buildings were evacuated within a margin of ninety-seven percent. They were subterranean facilities. Anything above ground was parking."

Neither Coulson nor Pepper respond; silence falling so suddenly that Natasha can still hear the echo of her words.

The silence is always torture—but that they seem to feel even a fraction of her displeasure is oddly gratifying.

The memory of that first explosion is a ghostly tickle along the back of her neck—the pulse of it still resonating against her skin. Sometimes her vision deceives her—makes her think that the world is rushing at her at great speeds and she feels like she's falling—her heart is rushing and her stomach bottoms out and it's like falling even when she reaches out to curl her hand around the cool metal of the rail to ground her.

She feels powerless.

"Do you remember _anything?_" Coulson asks carefully.

She remembers _enough._

Bile rises to her throat and into her mouth and she swallows it back—blinks slowly and looks up at Coulson without allowing a trace of her thoughts to be revealed through her expression. Her tone is business-like and crisp when she replies, "_No._ I've already told you—I don't remember anything after you sent your team to—"

"Convenient that the one thing you can't seem to remember is the bit where you _attacked_ us," Agent Barton mutters, usual scowl in place.

Natasha sniffs and looks away from Barton. "You don't have to believe me. I don't care." Her eyes settle on the corner Loki seems to have claimed for his own; he doesn't appear to be paying attention to any of them, his eyes far away and his brows drawn together in concentration. There's something stiff and unwelcome about the way he holds himself and it's distracting enough that she doesn't have to linger on thoughts of failure (of revenge).

"You were clearly out of control. You were hallucinating," Agent Romanoff says.

Natasha blinks, glancing back to the two assassins. "Hallucinating?"

Barton's scowl deepens. "You weren't fighting us. You kept calling out for—"

"Yinsen," Romanoff murmurs.

There's a terrible moment where Natasha _only_ knows fear—cold sweat gathers at her palms and at every crease of her flesh and her heart is where her stomach should be and her stomach twists and it fights her and for a horrifying second, she thinks she might even _cry._

She doesn't breathe.

She doesn't blink.

If she blinks …

_Caves and darkness and silence._

_Pain … terror. Pain and terror._

_An eternity of pain and terror._

"This is not the first of these occurrences; of the black outs." Loki says, startling everyone.

Pepper glances over at him and she seems to wait for him to meet her eyes but Loki is watching Natasha—and he doesn't seem to _see_ anything at all. Barton and Romanoff share a look and Coulson seems concerned, but Loki doesn't follow up with anything else—offers no other explanation—and finally Romanoff says, "You've definitely been under the influence of _something_. There are a number of different ways to control and manipulate a person without their knowledge. Do you know if you've been exposed to any—"

"It's not drugs," Coulson says before Romanoff can finish. "Her blood results showed no evidence of anything unusual."

"It would not," Loki says.

Coulson and Pepper turn again to face Loki and Pepper asks, hopefully and wearily, "You know what this is?"

Loki's expression belays nothing. His eyes shift as if seeing something, then focus so he's staring into Natasha's eyes when he says, "Magic."

Barton snorts incredulously, shifting his stance so he can keep an eye on both Loki and Natasha, evidently sharing an equal amount of distrust for them both. "You mean like the kind of hocus-pocus _you_ use?"

Loki looks to Barton and he glares—which is odd, because he's never risen to Barton's baiting. "Not _me, _you imbecile."

Pleasantly surprised by Loki's reaction, Barton smirks. "... Anyone ever tell you your eyes sparkle when you're angry?"

"Wait," Natasha says, sitting forward, cuffs digging into her wrist. "I think I would know if I was under some kind of … _spell."_

Loki shakes his head, eyes flicking back to her. "No. You would not. The Enchantress knows her craft well."

The response elicits more questions than it answers. Natasha scowls. "Who's the—"

Loki ignores her and goes on, stepping forward and looking to Coulson. "She would have had someone else administer the—"

"_Who's _the Enchantress?" Natasha tries again, losing her patience.

"Morgan," Loki says.

Natasha balks, "_What?_"

"Wait—you think he had something to do with this?" Pepper asks, her voice soft from too much emotion.

Loki's eyes flick to Pepper. "Who else has free access to the Tower? Who comes and goes as he pleases without arousing suspicion?"

"I—I know, but …" Pepper shakes her head, choking out a humorless, _incredulous_, laugh. "That's a _serious_ accusation. Morgan is a lot of things but _this_—"

"Whether he acted of his own free will or not, the Enchantress could have used him to bring her closer to Natasha. A spell of this nature requires _contact_."

"So you think—"

"Okay, okay—_hold_ up," Natasha snaps, irritation sparked at last by their dismissal of her. When she has their attention, she levels her glare on Loki. "Let's just _hold up_ a sec before we go accusing my _cousin_ of anything. Are we forgetting some maniac just _blew_ up my factory and _killed_—"

Coulson reaches out to rest a placating hand on the barricade of her bed, expression sympathetic and tone one of reason. "That man is in custody and he is going to _answer_ for his crimes, but there is still the matter of _you_. You attacked our operatives and—"

"I don't _remember_ that!" Natasha shouts, jerking at her restraint and watching out of the corner of her eye as Barton and Romanoff's hands both twitch for their side-arms. She barks a laugh at this but they maintain their defensive positions and continue to regard her with unapologetic wariness.

Coulson sighs. "Be that as it may, it happened."

Romanoff adds, "And if _Iron Woman_ can be compromised—"

"I'm _not!"_ Natasha snaps—feels _desperate_ because … this had to be a _joke._ Some psychopath kills over a hundred people and _she's_ being treated like the criminal? Natasha tries to calm herself with a breath and shakes her head. "I'm not. I'm not under any spells. I'm fine. I'm—"

"No," Loki says, grim, "And I was a fool before. I _saw _it and I did _nothing_."

Natasha frowns, confused and annoyed by the Asgardian who seemed content to sit by and watch everyone hurl accusations at her. "What? Hold on—what are you talking about?"

"I saw it," Loki replies, cryptic as ever. His gaze is far away again. "I saw a _glimpse _of it. I knew something was wrong. I could _tell_—but then _she_ appeared and I allowed myself to be distracted—"

Natasha shakes her head, exasperated. "I have no idea what you're talking about. _What_ are you talking about?"

"The Enchantress was there," Loki murmurs—and he's seeing Natasha again. "The waitress. That was her. You saw her. You remember_._"

Natasha frowns, and when she tries to remember it's like hitting an invisible wall erected in the middle of the room—in the middle of the restaurant—and from where she stands it is too far away to see whatever it is she's meant to see.

But then, from across the room, she spots herself and she sees Loki and they're in the booth … and Loki is looking into her eyes like he's searching … and then there's a blonde standing on the other side of their table, there just as suddenly as she wasn't, and Loki pulls away …

The rest of the memory trickles in slowly—but there's also _more._ She sees an apartment, neat and tiny—and a hand sketch of her Tower. She remembers …

"—a sort of perception filter," Loki is saying. "Over anything that would have aroused your suspicion—alerted you to the possibility that something was wrong."

The stream of memories thin out and there's nothing more. She tries to concentrate, but they won't return. She frowns, angered by the idea of anyone fiddling around with her mind.

"I don't understand," Pepper says softly. "Who _is_ this Enchantress? What does she want with Natasha?"

Barton grunts. "The bigger concern should be—is Stark still compromised?"

Natasha glares. "I'm _not_ compromised. Come _on_—"

Barton matches it with one of his own. "_Stark! _You _attacked_ us. Whether your remember it or not—you tried to _kill_ us."

That douses the fire of her righteous fury immediately. Natasha is stunned. "I—"

But Barton isn't finished. He steps forward, jabbing an accusing finger in her direction. "You weren't just trying to _hurt_ us, Stark. You were going for the _kill._"

She doesn't remember.

Romanoff and Barton are trained killers—they're no strangers to battle—but there's something in their eyes and it's something Natasha isn't sure she's qualified to categorize. Their expressions are hardened but it's not … _anger_ in their eyes. Natasha doesn't know if she recognizes the emotion or if it's even an emotion at _all._

She doesn't remember, but she knows that's not enough.

Quietly, she sits back against the wall, subdued as she holds Barton's eyes. She nods once—not quite an apology, but all her pride can allow.

It takes a minute, but finally the hostility in the assassins' positions seems to relax.

* * *

If he had paid more attention—

If he had _heeded_ Pepper's warning—

(If he'd been _here_ instead of—)

This would never have happened.

This would _never_ have happened.

It had been surprisingly difficult to focus his thoughts elsewhere while Natasha had been unconscious. His pride smarted with the knowledge that he had been deceived—by _Amora_, no less, if his suspicions could be confirmed. He had no shortage of enemies, but he couldn't fathom why the Enchantress would risk her safety challenging him in this way. A large part of him blamed Natasha for this lack of foresight—she had been a disruption to his plans since the moment he'd taken notice of her—but another part felt that acknowledging this would be acknowledging something more.

When Natasha eventually allows the others to question her more thoroughly, Loki decides to focus his attention outwards, knowing there is nothing to be gleaned from her mind.

But if the Enchantress had played any part in this, she'd learned enough from her studies under Karnilla to hide herself from Loki. There is no trace of her presence where Loki can find and when he turns his mind to Morgan, he finds that the human has been completely shrouded from him—might have been shrouded from him all _along_—and anger swells within him anew.

This was _beyond_ acceptable. He was _Loki_. He was the deceiver, not the _deceived._ Not for the first time does he question the worth of maintaining an alliance with Natasha. No friendship and no ally was worth this sort of humiliation.

Tempering his rage for the moment, Loki reaches out for a third time—and this time, he feels the immediate give of the unsuspecting mind.

He channels a single thought to the other: **_Parker._**

The jolt of the other's mind reverberates back to Loki. "_Whoa! What the—? H-hello?"_

**_Are you still within the Tower?_** Loki asks.

Parker's panic only seems to escalate when it's apparent he recognizes the voice speaking. "_L-Loki? Are you—are you in my _head?_ Holy crap! What— Is this like a Vulcan Mind-Meld or something what the—"_

Loki does not have time for the child's blathering. **_Is Morgan there?_**

Parker is speaking to himself. "_Uh … sure. This is totally normal. I have a psychopath talking to me in my head. Yeah. Totally—"_

Loki barely contains himself from snarling out loud as he snaps, **_Parker!_**

Another jolt—of fear or surprise—and Parker says, "_Ah—ah—sorry! Ms. Stark's cousin? I think I just saw him heading up. He was in a hurry. Why—?"_

Loki looks across the room to see Natasha and Barton glaring at each other. **_Get him. Detain him._**

_"Detain? You mean …"_

He locks onto Parker again to determine his exact location.

**_I'll be there soon._**

* * *

Clint's never spent much time thinking about aliens or the great beyond. Learning about what was out there had come as a surprise—but the job had taught him to roll over and carry on so he had; after all, Earth had its own share of monsters. Super Soldiers and great big hulking beasts were par for the course with S.H.I.E.L.D., and no one who knew Natasha Stark's character could be surprised by the birth of Iron Woman. There were many things Clint had learned to embrace over the course of his career with S.H.I.E.L.D..

Still. _Magic._

Something about _magic_ was unsettling in a way nothing else was—part of the reason Loki rubbed him the wrong way (excluding the not so minor bits where he tried to enslave the human race and brainwashed Clint to help him do so). The knowledge that Stark had somehow become exposed to some crazy voodoo-sorcery stuff made Clint want to get in his 'I told you so' because Stark had been playing with fire the second she took in the war criminal and this really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. Of course, when _Stark_ fucked up, she rained it down upon _anyone_ within a hundred-mile radius of her so now here they were—again.

Stark wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D., but Clint still feels dirty thinking about having to treat her like a suspect. However, given that they didn't know if they could even _trust_ her not to turn on them, such was going to have to be the case.

He doesn't expect her to take it well, and judging by Coulson's grimace, he doesn't either. "We're going to have to keep you here until—"

"Wait," Stark intones, staring directly past Coulson.

Coulson sighs. "Stark—our hands are _tied_. Until we know—"

"_Wait."_

Nat shifts beside Clint, studying Stark carefully. "What?"

Stark doesn't blink and Clint realizes what she's staring at. "Loki's gone," she mutters.

Potts swivels to look back at the Trickster and Clint does the same—sees him still standing still, frowning back at them, bemused. Potts turns back to Stark with a frown. "What?"

"That's not—Shit," Stark hisses, sitting forward and yanking at her arm. She's glaring at the God and struggling against her restraint. Nat slips closer to the bed, ready to subdue her if necessary. Stark is still cursing angrily, "Shit! _Goddammit._ Shit!"

Frowning, Clint moves away from the bed to the Trickster. He reaches out to nudge the God when the other only blinks down at him—and his hands slips directly through Loki's body, causing his image to flicker then vanish.

"What the … ?" Clint mutters, glancing over his shoulder to meet Nat's eyes.

Potts exclaims, "Natasha—wait! You still need to—"

Stark ignores her, pulling and thrashing at her restraint despite her injuries. "Get me out of these things! Get these the _fuck_ off! I need to _go!_ I need to—"

Clint frowns, crossing back to her bed. "Stark, we _can't_ let you—"

She snarls up at him, "Loki's gone after Morgan! So let me out or so help me_ God—"_

Clint scowls, "What are you going to _do_, Stark? Without your suit, you're just _spare parts_. Stay here and—"

"You think that's my _only_ suit? I—"

"Enough," Coulson snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs when he looks down at Stark and she stills, glaring up at him with expectation. "Stark, we can't trust your state of mind. How can—"

Stark only sneers. "You're not _listening_. You are _going_ to get me out of these things. _Now_. Because I assure you: S.H.I.E.L.D. does _not_ want to make an enemy out of me."

Clint stiffens—feels himself slip back into professionalism because that is a _threat_ and he doesn't take those lightly.

"Sir?" Romanoff murmurs, seemingly unperturbed.

Coulson merely looks down at Stark. He nods, resigned. "Where?"

"I—" Stark frowns—a flicker of something in her eyes before its gone and Clint can't name it. She shakes her head. "I don't know. Stark Tower? It's—fuck. _Fuck._ I—I don't know."

"I'll call him." Potts says, turning away as she draws out her phone.

Stark shakes her head again, eyes on her friend. "No. Call JARVIS."

Potts nods.

"Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff," Coulson says, facing them. "You will accompany Stark to the Tower."

"Yes, sir."

Clint snorts. "This is ridiculous. Stark throws a tantrum and we're just going to _bend over?"_

Coulson catches his eye and merely says, "Your _orders _have been given, Agent."

"Whatever," Clint shrugs, not about to disobey. He adds, in part to annoy Stark, "You don't think we might benefit from some super-human backup? You know—in case we end up having to try and restrain a _God._"

Coulson looks to Stark uncertainly.

She huffs, rolling her eyes. "It's not a fuckin' slumber party. I don't care who goes as long as we _go."_

* * *

Loki materializes just in time to see Spiderman's web strike the driver's door of Natasha's Saleen S7 and rip it off in one motion. The door clatters noisily behind Loki and a stunned Morgan sits in the driver's seat of the car gaping out at the masked vigilante with open terror. Noticing Loki's presence, Spiderman shrugs before he reaches in to forcibly grab Morgan out of the car, "He ran. Sorry about the car."

Spiderman keeps Morgan on his feet, swiveling him to face Loki and using only a hand to hold him in place. Morgan seems too frightened to do anything and it takes him a second to recognize Loki.

He tries to reach out to Loki in panic. "_You!_ Y-you have to help me! This _freak—"_

"Hey!" Spiderman exclaims from behind Morgan, laying a hand over the spider insignia on his chest. "You're breaking my heart."

Loki sneers, crossing the garage to stand directly in front of him. "I should _kill_ you _now_, _worm_."

"Wait, wait," Spiderman steps around Morgan but he doesn't release him. "You didn't say anything about—"

Ignoring the boy, Loki reaches out and holds out his hand, fingers splayed and magic curling lazily around his palm, winding around his fingers. Spiderman seems to instinctively shift closer to the human, almost protectively—but Loki ignores this as he allows his Midgardian clothing to dissolve into his Asgardian armor, sans the helmet. Morgan's eyes widen impossibly as he sees this; his knees buckle but he's held upright by Loki's magic.

Realizing this, Spiderman drops his hand away from Morgan's shoulder and steps closer to Loki, uncertainty in his stance. "Hey, Lord _Terrible_, what are you … ?"

Morgan seems to fall into a state that's both terror and rage. He snarls at Loki, but he keeps his body unnaturally still—even despite the hold of Loki's magic—as if his survival instincts had kicked in and were telling him to attract as little attention to himself as possible. "What—what—are you one of them? Are you a _freak?"_

Loki is furious—wants to _crush_ the human from the inside out and then find Amora and do the same. The man's insolence does little to calm him and with a flick of Loki's wrist, the man's body is flung backward against the Saleen. Loki follows him and curls his hand around Morgan's throat, shoving his head down so his cheek is mashed against the hood of the car.

"Who ordered this done?" Loki demands—needs confirmation even when every cell of his body already knows the truth. But there are rules—there are _laws_—and he _needs_ the words spoken if he doesn't want all of Asgard coming down on him for the slaying of one of their own.

Morgan twitches and Loki feels him trembling under his hand. "I—I don't know what you're—"

Spiderman suddenly drops down in a crouch on the roof of the car, releasing a web that wraps around Loki's wrist and tugs—but Loki isn't budged and Spiderman exclaims, "Yo! Hey, man! What are you—calm _down_, crazy! You can't _kill_ him!"

"He made attempt at Natasha's _life_! I will do what I damn well _please!"_

"Y-you're both i-insane!" Morgan whimpers. "W-when—"

"Do _not_ play _games_ with me, vermin!" Loki snarls, fingers tightening around Morgan's throat, pressing him harder against the hood. "I want a _name!_ Tell me her _name!"_

Morgan's eyes squeeze shut and Loki only sneers at the single tear that pools in the cavity of his eye and the bridge of his nose. "A-A-Amora! She—she called herself _Amora!_ But—but she'll _kill_ me for—"

Spiderman tugs impatiently at the web still fastened around Loki's wrist. "Who tried to kill Ms. Stark? _This_ guy? Who's Amora? What's going _on_?"

It has been a long time since Loki has felt a rage as black as _this_ and it takes everything in his power not to apply the necessary force to separate Morgan's head from his neck. Loki's eyes flick to the web at his wrist and it's immediately set aflame in a green fire that eats away at the string before Spiderman has a chance to do little more than hurriedly drop the web in response.

It is not the betrayal that burns him—Loki trusts none save himself—but there are too many slights to focus his anger and it threatens to consume him. Loki had _warned_ Natasha of Morgan, as Pepper had done him—but Natasha had been foolish and had _trusted_ and she was reaping the benefits of such misguided trust now. More than that, where Morgan had failed to assume victory over Natasha, he had succeed in striking Loki's pride—for it is his _pride_ that proved the victim when a petty Goddess and a _mortal_ could slip their schemes past _him._ It was a crime worthy only of _death._ One Loki would ensure was meted out.

Eventually, Loki deigns to answer the boy, recognizing that he was being useful rather than a nuisance, which was more than he had been expecting of him. "This _filth_ was enlisted to poison Natasha's mind by Amora, the Enchantress."

"Amora?" Spiderman echoes, curious. "So ... she's _evil?_ Like you?"

"I am not _evil,_ you dull creature," Loki spits, looking up to glare at Spiderman. "I'm … complicated." He clamps down on the word and jerks his head back to glare down at Morgan.

Spiderman snorts as if amused but he doesn't seem inclined to intervene—which went to show just how little Morgan had bothered to endear himself to the people in Natasha's employment while he was fulfilling Amora's plans.

With an exasperated sigh, Spiderman asks, "Well, what do we do now?"

"_You_ can _go_," Loki replies curtly, sneering in disgust to see Morgan has begun to openly sob.

Spiderman half-stands, protesting, "Wait, but—what's going on? If I can help—"

"Natasha will be here soon and with her—_S.H.I.E.L.D.,"_ His projection would have bought him minutes, at most. Natasha was becoming distressingly good at detecting them. "It's best if you're gone before then."

Hardly an idiot, Spiderman seems to acknowledge the truth in Loki's words. He groans, throwing his head back in exasperation. "Uh—ugh—_man!_ Fine! _Fine._ But you better not—you better not _kill_ him, okay? _Okay?"_

Loki doesn't answer. He releases Morgan and steps away, waving an impatient hand in Spiderman's direction and vanishing him without another word. Morgan, too paralyzed by fear, doesn't move to get up—holds his position as if Loki were still pinning him in place. Every inch of him shudders with anticipation and terror; beneath him, the hood creaks with each involuntary convulsion.

As he watches the human slowly, fearfully, blink open his eyes to survey the situation, Loki feels his hatred and anger swell almost uncontrollably. Amora would pay, but _Morgan_—this disgusting sack of dying flesh—was going to _suffer_ first.

"Do you know why you are here?" Loki asks quietly—deceptively calm.

Morgan is trembling violently and when he tries to stand he only succeeds in sliding down the side of the car to crumple pathetically by the wheel. His eyes are red and his cheeks are flushed and stained with tears—nose running and drool slathered across his lips and down his chin. He looks disgusting and Loki is tempted to simply _erase_ him—to cast him into some pit where he would _only_ know fear.

" … W-w-what?" Morgan whimpers, voice crackling.

"You are _here_ because your _Goddess_ has abandoned you. Do you know _why_?" Loki holds out a hand between them, allowing his magic to gather at his palm—a matter of intimidation more than anything else because he still hasn't decided how to make Morgan pay. Morgan doesn't dare blink away from Loki and Loki grins wickedly as he says, "Because _I_ am the monster even _Gods_ will fear."

Then, he allows his eyes to flash blood red and his skin to turn a frigid blue. The magic at his hand turns to an icy mist that freezes the particles in the air. He knows Morgan understands when a suspicious wet stain appears at the crotch of his pants and gathers in a pool around his legs.

In his fear, Morgan seems to lose control of his body—his hands quake and his eyes shed tears anew as he sniffles and shakes his head in desperation. "N-no! No—you _can't!_ I n—never—I never wanted to _hurt_ her! I just wanted—she only said that she would help me get what I _deserved!_ I j-just—I just wanted what was _mine!_ I j-just wanted the _company!_ I never wanted—I never _thought—_"

"So _killing_ Natasha was never your intention?" Loki murmurs, allowing his Jotun form to disappear under the guise of his Asgardian façade. He watches as his magic begins to gather around Morgan's body and then lift him back to his feet so his shame is displayed. Loki holds him in place, high enough that his feet barely graze the floor.

"N-no! Of c-course not!" Morgan stutters, weeping. "She's my _cousin!_ I didn't—I'd _never—"_

Loki snarls, "But _corrupting _her _mind—_turning her against her _allies—_"

"I—I just—I just—"

And then a shout rings out from behind him, "Loki!"

His time is up.

Another voice calls out, "Loki, stand down!"

The _soldier._

Morgan seems to sag in relief and his tears come harder, looking to his left and pleading, "Natasha! Oh, thank God—_Natasha!_ Please! You have to—"

The _audacity!_ Loki is _blinded_ with hate—

"_Still_ your _fucking_ tongue! You are _done_ speaking!" Loki rages, clenching his hand and forming a constriction over Morgan's heart with magic—not enough to kill him, but just enough that it would _hurt._

Morgan screams with agony and Loki flicks his eyes to the side to see Natasha being restrained by Agent Romanoff, flanked on either side by Steve Rogers and Agent Barton.

"Stop!" Natasha shouts, her horrified gaze on Morgan. "_Stop_!"

Foolish to the end.

He could crush the man's heart and bring an end to this. Natasha would not forgive him—but it would be _just._

Loki looks back to Morgan and watches him impassively for a moment as he considers this—feels a strange calm fall over him as if entering the eye of a storm—before releasing the vice on the mortal heart and body so Morgan slumps to the ground, curling into himself.

"JARVIS." Loki says, watching Morgan.

"_Sir."_

And then:

_"Who ordered this done?" _Loki's voice demands overhead, echoing in the garage.

_"I—I don't know what you're—"_ Morgan's whimpers follow.

_"Do _not_ play _games_ with me, vermin! I want a _name_! Tell me her _name_!"_

* * *

_"A-A-Amora! She—she called herself _Amora_! But—but she'll _kill_ me for—"_

The recording is over quickly and Natasha stills, her eyes falling on her cousin and … staring. "Morgan … ?"

There is no physical harm that she can see, but Morgan cannot seem to find the strength to stand as he unfolds himself and struggles to his hands and knees so he can look up at her. Their eyes meet—and Natasha isn't sure what she sees. There's regret and something else—but there is no denial.

Betrayed … by a cousin.

It's poetic.

"Na—Natasha … let me—let me explain …" Morgan breaths, looking uncertainly between her and the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents beside her.

"How long?" Natasha murmurs shakily, the words given breath before she is aware of the thought.

Natasha holds his gaze—and his expression trembles and crumbles under the weight of her accusation until he is forced lower his eyes and bow his head.

His whisper is broken and hoarse with shed tears, but she hears his words as though a shout. "S-she … was the one w-who … sent me to you."

… From the beginning, then.

Agent Romanoff releases her and Natasha finds her balance gone—stumbles forward a step as if the world were trying to abandon her feet. Her legs feel weak—feel foreign and bloodless and they tingle with the prickling of a thousand needles. She feels gutted—she feels _raw—_but her heart is far removed, unwilling to accept and to feel.

"… Why?" Her voice does not sound her own—thin as if she'd gone many years without speech—and she wets her lips and swallows, shaking her head to clear the myriad of questions that seek to burst from her. "_Why_ would you … ?"

"It's not what you t-think," Morgan sobs desperately into the floor, his voice broken and weak. "I-I wasn't—I didn't know—she told me she was going to _help_ me. She said she'd make it so you'd _see_ that—that _I_ should be running the company and—"

Every word is a dagger and it _cuts_ rather than stabs—haphazard wounds inflicted to cause suffering without yielding to its end.

And _at_ the end—it appears even _blood_ would betray her.

… As _everyone_ betrays her.

And why should she be surprised? After all, Howard had chosen Rogers and her mother had chosen drink. Why should it surprise her that Morgan would choose the promise of wealth and success over her? And what does it say of _her_ that not even her _family_ would choose to remain loyal? What does it say when they prove themselves to be no different from every other who has ever thought to make a profit from her misfortune?

(Trust was just a stretch a rope you gave people—and at the end of it, one of you would take it as a noose around your neck.)

Her eyes burn. She shakes her head—thinks that she might be dreaming because the world feels weird. Feels _wrong._ "The _company … ?"_ Incredulous, she chokes on a laugh and swallows past the fist in her throat. "You did this for the _company?"_

It's like something comes to life within Morgan at her words. He forgets his fear, sitting up abruptly and slumping back against her car, glaring back at her with pure _hatred._

"You never even _wanted_ it!" Morgan screams, swiping at his tears. "You never wanted _anything_ to do with Howard! You—you _told_ me so yourself! But you _took_ it! You took it anyway and you twisted Howard's dream into—into _this!_ And it's—it's a _mockery! _It's a mockery of everything he ever stood for!"

His hatred seems to fuel her and Natasha feels a little bit of herself return as she scowls. "My _father_ built a company that _thrived_ on warfare and the blood of _innocent_ people_! That_ was _his_ legacy for me!" Natasha snaps, "He may be a hero to _you_ but he was _far_ from a—"

"You're just a spoiled little _brat!_" Morgan bellows, straightening his back against the car. He doesn't try to stand but he no longer looks afraid. Rather, he seems to have forgotten there is anyone else in the room. "You _never_ deserved _any_ of this! You were _always_ the favorite!"

"What are you _talking_ about?" Natasha demands, incredulous.

"My father could _never_ shut up about you! About what a _genius_ you are! _You_—you who are nothing more than a wretched _orphan_! Yet _you_ possess all that I _deserve!_ This wealth should be _mine!_ The Stark name should be _mine!_ People should think of _me_ when they utter our name—_not_ you! You're a _frivolous,_ worthless, _stupid_ little _girl—!"_

"I have heard _enough!" _Loki snaps suddenly, holding out his hand and curling it into a fist. Morgan doubles over immediately, clutching his hands to his chest and _screams._

Natasha feels her blood run cold and her anger dissolve. "Wait—no! Stop! Loki—_stop_!"

Morgan snarls nastily, gasping words through each laborious breath. "You—even—harbor—this—_monster!"_

Her eyes are burning again and her throat constricts—her heart is racing and she's _terrified_ because Loki's gaze holds a promise and Morgan doesn't seem to understand. "Shut _up_, Morgan! He _will_ kill you! Loki—stop it! Stop it! Just let him—"

"_Go?_" Loki sneers, swiveling his head to glare at her. "No. I don't think so. This vermin does not deserve the _luxury_ of your mercy—"

"Natasha—you can't let him do this!" Morgan gasps. "I'm _family!_ I'm _blood—"_

Loki takes a step closer and his fist tightens—Morgan's words cut off in another scream. "You do not reserve the right to name her kin. Blood does not make _family_. Family is _loyalty_—of which you know _nothing_!"

"Loki!" Natasha tries again—but when she tries to move forward there's another hand at her shoulder, holding her back. Without looking, she knows it's Rogers by the effortlessness of his strength, but she doesn't try to fight back. Loki is ignoring her and she calls out again, dangerously close to breaking tears, "_Loki!_ Stop!"

Loki snarls at her, "_Why?"_

Natasha is frozen—_stunned._

Her mind is blank again. Her mouth opens but words fail her.

Until, eventually, only a single thought returns.

She says quietly, " … He's my cousin."

The look of incredulity in Loki's eyes as he cuts his gaze to her feels like a blow against her weakening resolve.

Loki laughs sharply. "He would have _killed_ you. If he had succeeded, your mind would be _gone._ Why should he be spared? Why does _he_ deserve the luxury?"

With more conviction than she feels, Natasha meets Loki's eyes and says, "He's my _cousin."_

Morgan was … the _only_ family she had. The last Stark. He had been like a _brother_, once. They'd been raised together—_learned_ together and _played_ together. It wasn't a bond you simply threw away. It wasn't that easy. He was _family._

She craves anger—because it alone would spare her this _despair._ There is _nothing_ like the betrayal of family. There is no remedy for the _wound_ it carves across her damaged heart and for the first time she _longs_ for the silence of the caves—for the eternity of _space_—so she would not have to face this truth.

Loki stares into her eyes but she cannot hold the gaze this time and looks away.

After a long moment, Loki drops his hand and Morgan slumps forward, unconscious.

"He was going to _kill_ you," Loki murmurs, something cold and hard in his words.

She feels something in her stutter—then shatter.

"He's my cousin."

* * *

_Stark Manor, 1977_

Even geniuses could enjoy childish games, from time to time. Normally, she liked to think she was above it, but Morgan was persistent and occasionally she indulged him. Natasha is only seven and Morgan is two years her senior, but he often acts like the younger brother she never wanted and his visits are at least a reprieve from the boredom of a house too large and too few to share it with.

"That's not fair! Why do _you_ always get the cooler stuff?"

"Uh—because I'm awesome and you're a loser. Why are you whining? I gave you the fort! You've got your own base of operations." Natasha has to bite back a grin as Morgan glares down at her from his perch in the treehouse. The structure was elaborate and massive, spanning several trees and fitted with lifts and various rooms for her many projects. Somehow, though, despite being its sole occupant, Morgan still found it lacking.

He glares down at her, then pouting at GIZMO. "Yeah, but—_I_ want a robot, too!"

She rolls her eyes, dropping an arm around what passed for the robot's 'shoulders'. GIZMO was only meant for transporting objects; his concept wasn't overly complicated and didn't really compare to the fort in terms of worth. Trying to explain _that_ to Morgan, however, was like plucking teeth from a wild animal.

"You can't have a robot _and_ secret base," she argues reasonably.

Morgan scowls petulantly. "Why not? There's no rule against that."

Natasha snorts. "Because _I'm_ the hero and _you're_ the villain. You have a secret base—"

"But it's not even a _secret!_ You know where it _is!"_

"That's because I _built_ it! And I'm supposed to get it back. You took it away because you're the villain and now I'm getting it back. And I have a _robot_ because every hero needs a sidekick." Natasha grins up at him, adding, "Unless _you_ wanna be my sidekick."

Morgan sulks, unabashed, "No, I'm _tired_ of being your sidekick."

She shrugs. "Well, then, there you go. I get the robot."

"But don't _I _get a sidekick?" Morgan frowns.

Natasha blinks, canting her head up at Morgan—she's getting a crick in her neck from holding this angle and it's making her lose patience. "What—like a henchman?"

Morgan shrugs but there's something shifty in his eyes. "Sure."

"… I _guess_." Though she can't imagine where he might procure one.

Morgan beams, satisfied. "Cool!"

Frowning, Natasha considers him for a moment, then adds, "You have to make it yourself, though."

Predictably, Morgan turns indignant. "_What?_ No fair!"

She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Exactly _how_ is that not fair? You expect _me,_ the _hero_, to make my arch-nemesis a _henchman?_ I don't think you know how this hero business _works."_

Morgan pouts, crossing his arms. "Well, I never _asked_ to be the villain. You're the one who decided that _for_ me, anyway." He turns away to enter the fort, sulking.

"Uh, that's because there can't be _two_ heroes, Morgan," Natasha calls after him, knowing he can still plainly hear. After a minute, he descends down the rungs from the base to the ground to stand before her. She smiles, placating, "At least, not in _this_ story. This is _my_ story."

Still sulking, Morgan huffs, "So when do we get to play _my_ story."

She shrugs. "I don't know. When you come up with one."

Morgan scowls and his eyes dart away to a point behind her as a shout rings out from the manor: "Children, come inside please!"

Groaning, Natasha twists on her heel to see her butler standing at the end of the porch, eyeing the filth on their clothing with distaste. As she and Morgan jog their way to him, she calls out, "Aw, _man_, Jarvis! We were just getting to the good part!"

Jarvis smiles unsympathetically as she approaches, a single brow arched pointedly at the state of her clothes. "I'm sorry, Miss, but the Mr. Stark is here for the young master."

"Dad?" Morgan wonders, bemused.

Behind Jarvis, Natasha sees her uncle step out onto the porch. He's dressed in his business suit and carries a briefcase so she isn't surprised when his stoic expression doesn't break even to smile at his son. As Morgan joins his father, Natasha takes Jarvis' side.

"Hey, Uncle Ed," Natasha smirks. She feels a light smack between her shoulders, courtesy of Jarvis, for the lacking reception.

Her uncle smiles regardless. "Natasha, my dear. How's school?"

She shrugs. "Boring."

He chuckles, sharing a look with Jarvis. "Well, of course it is. You're just like your father, after all."

Impatiently, Morgan frowns up at his father. "Dad! Naddie said—"

Edward turns abruptly to head for the door. "Well, we need to get going. Morgan, get your things."

Morgan looks crushed and Natasha frowns as he pouts up at his father. "But, dad—"

Edward turns his stern gaze upon Morgan. "_Now_, son. I'm in a hurry. Get your things. Your mother's in the car."

Deflated, Morgan nods and slips away without another word. Natasha watches him go and wonders why he should be so upset. But Morgan is _always_ overly sentimental and she's given up putting consideration into every slight he perceived.

Estimating it would only take Morgan a handful of minutes to be ready, she takes the opportunity to use her uncle as her first test subject—given that Obi won't be around for another few weeks.

"Oh, hey! Uncle Ed! Wanna see the robot I built for our school science fair?"

* * *

_Present_

"Natasha won't be happy," Bruce murmurs, burying his head wearily into his hands.

Pepper sinks down on the couch beside him and chews her lip—has spent all day searching for ways to keep her busy because she feels herself desperately close to shattering.

It was too much. It was simply _too much_.

Her worry for Natasha is consuming and tears come, unbidden. She bows her head, hands clutching each other tightly on her lap. "I know," she whispers, "I know—but I didn't have a choice."

Bruce doesn't offer response and Pepper continues to weep in silence for the friend she considered like a _sister_—the friend whom life continually spit upon in its never ending pursuit to test Natasha's resolve. Even her hatred for Morgan is but a shadow to the agony she feels for Natasha—it's not something that can be measured, worsened still by her guilt in having turned to the _one man_ Natasha distrusted above all.

"Where is she?"

Pepper and Bruce both startle at the unexpected voice—looking up to see that Loki has appeared across from them by the wall of windows. Behind him, the sky is dark with night and the city is alight with artificial lights.

"Loki!" Pepper exclaims, standing abruptly. Her tears are forgotten at the sight of the God and she isn't sure whether she should be frightened or relieved by is unprecedented return after what Agent Romanoff had told her of his departure and the state he had left Morgan in. "You—you left so suddenly, I wasn't sure …"

"Morgan's in custody," Bruce says quietly, following suit and standing. His expression is pinched with conflicting thoughts but his eyes do not betray them; there is a determination in the way he looks at Loki that gives Pepper reason to feel cautious.

Loki sneers, jerking his gaze away in a flash of raw anger that leaves Pepper breathless. "I'd rather him in _chains_ and—"

"Natasha is, too," Pepper says quickly, unnerved by the violence in his words. "They're keeping her until—until they can be certain she's not still … under Amora's … _spell._ Natasha didn't put up much of a fight. I think she's still in shock. Not that I blame her."

Loki's jaw is tight, clenched with restraint. It takes him a minute to form words and turn eyes to them again. "I will find Amora. The curse appears to target Natasha's mind. As long as she is contained, she will not bring harm to others or herself."

"And this—Amora?" Pepper asks carefully. "What about her?"

"I will deal with the Enchantress," Loki replies, holding her eyes long enough to be certain he's conveyed his determination. Pepper does not feel eased. Then Loki's eyes shift to Bruce and Pepper's stomach is already twisting itself into a knot before Loki has spoken. "Banner—you will journey with me."

Bruce steps forward before Pepper can voice her concern—feels uncomfortable with the idea of Loki going off on a path for vengeance when there was already enough cause to doubt him. If Fury found out it could only spell more trouble for Natasha.

"You never had a choice," Bruce says, a humorless smirk twisting his lips. "Where are we going?"

Loki nods once and returns the smirk with a wicked one of his own.

"To Asgard."

* * *

When Nat leaves the conference room, it seems to Clint that the level of tension in the room seems to rise with her departure. It is only the Captain and Clint, but the Cap's silence leaves him feeling uncomfortable. Somewhere in another part of the building, Stark is being held in a room not unlike the one the Captain had awoken to. The ease with which the notoriously headstrong woman had given in made Clint suspicious—and also vaguely disturbed. It's been a long time since Clint has been called upon to settle something as domestic as a family dispute—but, so far as he could recall, there had never been an instance in which a cousin had attempted to overthrow another by means of _magic. _More than that, Morgan Stark had opened the door for some witch to mess with his cousin's mind—a potentially _devastating_ blow to national security if Morgan had been allowed to succeed.

Clint snorts in disgust, shaking his head as he replays the fight against Iron Woman with a new perspective. "Not sure I would have stopped him, you know?"

"Loki?" Rogers grunts from where he's seated across from him, back ramrod straight in his chair and arms folded on the table. He pulls his eyes away from the wall he'd been boring holes into to frown at Clint.

"Yeah," Clint huffs with another shake of his head. "That Morgan—that guy was—_man._ People are twisted. We've met some monsters—but I always forget …"

Rogers hums thoughtfully, dropping his gaze to the dark glass of the table. Bitterly, he mutters, "We're the bigger monsters."

"Yeah," Clint sniffs, reclining against his chair and turning his eyes to the ceiling. "Sometimes—I think it would just be _easier_ to be one of the bad guys."

How many lives did they lose to those monsters and those freaks calling themselves human? After the devastation caused by Horgan at Stark's factory, Clint was hard-pressed to decide who the bigger threat to this world was: Loki or _them?_ The terrible things people were willing to do to each other could put the Trickster God to _shame._

Quietly, Clint continues his thoughts out loud, "It's _because_ we try to be good—try to be _better_—that they always win, in the end. We'll never be able to protect everyone—and that's a victory. That's _their_ victory. We're fighting a losing battle."

As an operative, it was never in one's best interest to dwell on these things. If one did, having faced what he had in the line of duty, one could too quickly lose all hope for fighting. A new monster was born every day—some new psychopath who had weighed his options in life and determined that dedicating one's self to the pursuit of destruction was their calling. Clint has no illusions about what his job has made him—the path he's carved is paved with corpses—but he's no monster.

Of that much he can at least be certain.

"We've got some pretty big names on our side," Clint says after a minute, feeling oddly sober as his thoughts fall back to the Starks. He thinks about her threat and wonders just what it would take to push her over the edge—to make _her_ the enemy. "But for all the flack we give her, Stark is no grunt. And she's right. The last thing I'd want is to be on opposing sides."

Rogers snorts, surprisingly derisive—a sour look takes form on his expression, as if reserved expressly for thoughts of Natasha Stark. "She doesn't always give us a choice."

Clint can't help a wry grin—but it quickly dissolves to a frown. "Stark's … just—well, I mean, I get where she's coming from. I understand why she fights us—fights _Fury_—so hard. And it's _frustrating_, but … I dunno. I guess I'd rather she'd be a pain in the ass than just another suit blindly throwing her money at every problem."

Although she often does. The difference, however, is that Stark has the mind and the heart and the strength to make the hard choices few others in her position would.

Rogers declines to answer and Clint takes a moment to study him. The stiffness in the way he held himself has been present since the moment they'd come to him so that they could fetch Stark. Nat had been the first to call him out on it on the flight to Stark's factory, but Rogers had remained uncharacteristically mute without even a polite deflection. Clint can understand that Stark has a way of getting under one's nerves, but even _he_ has never felt the sort of animosity for her that seems to fester between the two heroes. It amuses him to think what the world would say if they knew their beloved idols could scarcely stand to share the same space, let alone _work_ together.

He considers Rogers for a moment longer before he asks, "You've read her file?"

Startled, Rogers blinks up at him, frowning. "Fury suggested …"

Clint refrains from rolling his eyes and smirks. "That file? It's not going to give you the whole story." Rogers frown darkens and he turns his face away—which is enough to convince Clint that this is a topic that should be broached. "There are certain things—things that are, for the most part, pretty common knowledge for anyone, you know, of _this_ century—but things that have been stricken from her official file. There are a dozen different reasons for this. For one: Stark—and the other reason is Fury, who—despite everything—respects Stark more than you or she will ever know. Respected her enough to remove certain … _aspects_ of her past from her file."

Seemingly resolved not to take interest, Rogers betrays himself by allowing his impeccable posture to falter for a fraction, the barest of slouches as he shifts closer to the table. Clint takes a moment to regard the room's security as he considers his words—isn't the kind of man who appreciates having his personal life divulged and so disdains the thought of sharing what is not his to share. Still, the behavior between Rogers and Stark lacks reason—petty rivalry at most, it seemed to Clint, and mostly on Stark's part. What bemused Clint was how much it seemed to affect the Cap—and he knew that it couldn't all be due to Fury's machinations that the relationship between Rogers and Stark had soured so much since the moment they'd met.

Rogers relents much sooner than Clint had anticipated and so he is surprised when the other man speaks.

"I don't understand," Rogers murmurs, frown deepening.

Biting back a satisfied grin, Clint instead asks, "Do you know why Stark stopped manufacturing weapons for the government?"

Somehow, Rogers seems to find it difficult to meet his eyes, but he shakes his head and mutters, "Wasn't it due to … _legal_ issues? Her weapons were being used by terrorist organizations against our soldiers so she had to—"

"That's _part_ of it," Clint replies quickly. It's been a long time since he's read Stark's file—most of what he knew had come from Nat and Coulson, so reading the reports on her had seemed unnecessary. Somehow, he doesn't think the legality of an issue would ever deter Stark from going through with it. "But it wasn't for legal reasons, no. Widow was in charge of her case several years back with Coulson. She was shadowing Stark for a long time before she was eventually ordered to get closer. You see, the reason Stark ceased production of these weapons wasn't because she was afraid of being sued or because of the bad press."

Before Clint can continue, Rogers' expression pinches and he shakes his head urgently, as if to dismiss his interest on the subject. "Why—is this relevant? Why are you telling me this? If it's been stricken from her file it must be for a reason."

"Not an official one, no," Clint argues gently, studying Rogers' reaction with interest. He shrugs, "See, pretty much everything that happens to Stark is open for the public's consumption. _Fury _struck certain aspects of her recent past from file out of a sense of respect to what privacy Stark really doesn't have."

"Respect?" Rogers scoffs, still scowling down at the table and never looking up at Clint. It spoke of a burdened mind and sparked Clint's curiosity the more. "I thought they hated each other."

"They don't like each other," Clint corrects. "Stark _probably _hates Fury—but Fury doesn't let his personal opinions cross over into his job so I don't really know _what _he thinks about Stark. I only know that he's strongly invested in her … cooperation."

"Fine," Rogers says shortly, exhaling heavily through his nose. "So, why—"

"I just want to clear some things up," Clint says, sitting up and allowing his expression to match his tone in severity. "I know how Stark is. She's hard to get along with because she doesn't really _want_ to get along with _anyone. _But you seem to have this opinion of her that's—well, it's a little unfounded. In the future, we might be asked for work with her again, and it's in all of our best interests if you two aren't going at each other's throats when we're meant to be a _team_."

Rogers sniffs—and bar rolling his eyes, Clint has the distinct impression of speaking to a slighted sibling. Begrudgingly, Rogers mutters, "You should talk to _her, _then."

Grimacing at the thought, Clint shakes his head. "No. That's still Widow's department."

It's only then that Rogers looks up, his expression incredulous. "Are you saying Fury still has Agent Romanoff casing Stark?"

"I'm not saying anything of the like," Clint replies easily. "Are you going to hear me out?"

Taken aback by the deflection, Rogers frowns and grunts, "About _Stark_?" He snorts, his lips forming a thin line of displeasure. "Look, I'm pretty sure I know what I need to know. She has issues with her _father_ which she's projecting on _me_. Whatever problems she and Howard _had, _however—they're none of my concern. She blames me for some imagined offense and—"

"Several years ago, Stark was abducted by a terrorist cell known as the Ten Rings."

Stunned, Rogers is robbed of words for several minutes, staring. Clint watches him mull over the words and takes interest in the way his breathing quickens—remembers reading about a POI Rogers had been friends with and that had been lost in the war against HYDRA. He sometimes forgets that the 40's for Rogers were still a fresh memory, and as such, losses incurred were still fresh wounds, far from healed.

" … What?" Rogers murmurs softly—tone hard. His eyes narrow accusingly and the weight of being pinned under the full intensity of those eyes is as intimidating as one would expect of a living legend. "How could that _not_ be on her file?"

Clint's hands come up in helpless gesture and he smirks wryly, "It doesn't _have_ to be. It was on every news and radio station; every magazine and newspaper stand—the whole _world _knew. She was abroad, doing her PR thing—showing off some cool new tech for the government—when her caravan was attacked. The terrorists used _Stark_ weapons to bring down the entire platoon escorting her and then they captured Stark." He snorts, gaze darkening. "Unfortunately for them, Stark was in no position to be bartered for a ransom. She was injured during the attack. A piece of shrapnel from one of the bombs had burrowed itself in her chest, inches from her heart. She was as good as dead."

Rogers swallows and Clint notices that he's sitting forward, leaning on the table, hanging on Clint's every word. "And that's how she got the—the thing in her chest?"

Nodding, Clint recalls the begrudging report Stark had given Coulson on the incident. "One of her fellow prisoners was a man named Yinsen."

"Yinsen?" Rogers starts. "Her hallucination ... ?"

"Was of a memory, I'd imagine. Not a pleasant one, either, which explains why she didn't seem to hold back against us. She must have thought we were the terrorists." Clint lets that sink in, before he continues.

Eventually, Rogers nods for him to continue, though his expression is taking on a look of horror.

"Yinsen found a way to stall her death long enough for her to build the reactor she wears." Despite all that he's seen on the field, Clint grimaces at the thought of the reactor. Absently, he scratches a hand over his heart where the reactor would have had to be carved into. "It acts like a magnet, holding the shrapnel in place—but it's still there, waiting to tear her heart apart."

Rogers looks disturbed by this, shaking his head as if to reject the prospect. "There's no way to get it out?"

"There might be," Clint shrugs. "I'm sure we have the technology for it. But Stark would know, and if she hasn't removed it's either because she _can't_—or she _won't."_

Something like disappointment and guilt crosses over Rogers' expressions and he scowls down at the table as if in accusation. "I didn't know," he admits quietly.

"Here's the thing, man," Clint begins, matching Rogers' posture by leaning forward on the table between them. He snorts, shaking his head, "Stark's—Stark's a little _shit._ She really _is._ And she's not real a soldier and a lot of the time, I'm of the opinion that she really shouldn't even _be_ on the battlefield, but—"

Clint waits for Rogers to meet his eyes—to _understand—_because whether or not he and Stark are friends, he _never _forgets. Clint doesn't like to think about the arc-reactor in Stark's chest because he doesn't like to think about how it got there. He's always considered himself a gentleman, and even if Stark wasn't much of a delicate little lady, it _burned_ Clint to think about any woman being forced into such a situation under the cruel hands of men. He'd seen it done on too many occasion and only once had he been in a position to truly do something about it.

It's harder than he expects to keep emotion clear of his voice—but he feels the tremble of hatred within him and it lends strength to his voice. _"But_—I don't know a lot of men—soldiers, agents, or otherwise—who could _wake up_ to what must have been _agonizing_ pain, not knowing where they are or—" Clint cuts himself off before his imagination can get away from him—would not be able to stamp down on his anger if he thought about the kinds of things brutes like that did to the women in their captivity. Shaking his head from such thoughts, Clint tries to focus on _Stark. _"I mean, this girl comes from _money._ She's smart, but she's also a _princess_ in terms of how she was raised—and she wakes up, a fresh hole carved over her heart with only a car battery to keep her alive and no JARVIS or Pepper or anyone there to explain what's going on except a complete stranger." Clint takes a breath and can't look at Rogers—finds the role-reversal ironic and it allows him to summon a smirk. "I've _been_ in those kinds of situations. I _know_ how nerve wracking it can be—but I've been _trained._ Cap, they _tortured_ her and did _God_ knows what else to pull whatever information out of her that they could. They wanted her to build _weapons_ for them."

Some days it's easy to forget about _how_ Iron Woman came to be. Clint enjoys the simplicity of his relationship with Stark—enjoys the easy banter that sometimes gets a little out of hand and appreciates the fact that neither is invested in the other's personal affairs beyond necessity. And Clint knows that a good part of that simplicity is due to Stark's ever-persisting efforts to keep the world at arm's length and Clint's resolution to maintain as uncomplicated a relationship with her as the job would allow. Still—_life_ is complicated and Clint doesn't always get his way. Knowing the things he does means that—at the end of the day—he _does_ give a shit.

And that just fucking _sucks._

After a moment, Rogers says, "She … "

"Didn't," Clint says quickly, following Rogers' train of thought. He shakes his head. "No. Stark took everything and instead she—" Clint snorts incredulously, "That little fucker actually had the _balls_ to lie to them for _months._ She built herself the arc-reactor—right there, in the middle of the desert, with a box of _scraps_ she built the single most ground breaking piece of technology this world has seen. She removed the magnet Yinsen had built for her and transplanted it with her reactor. No doctors. Just her and Yinsen. She tricked her captors into thinking she was building _weapons_ for them all while she was working to build the Iron Woman—and she _escaped._ On her own. No rescue team no—no _nothing._"

And it boggles the mind to hear Rogers describe Stark as a mere _civilian_—to hear _anyone_ speak so dismissively of Stark as just another flippant girl with some wealth when the woman could be a goddamn _general_ if she wanted to. It's easy to lose one's temper with Stark—she just had that way about her—but for all the shit-talk and grief that Clint gave her (and was returned in kind), Stark had his respect and his _trust_—which, in his line of work, wasn't something he handed out so easily.

"See … that's something Stark's file isn't going to tell you and it's not something you can just talk to someone _about," _Clint goes on. "What the public knows is that Stark was held prisoner for months before she made her daring escape. The gritty details—Fury got Coulson to pry them out of her, but they never made it to her file. Think what you may about Fury—but even _he_ has a heart."

Rogers looks surprised—rightfully so. "He was _protecting_ her?"

Clint grins, shrugging, "I dunno. Maybe. In his own way. But, listen—" He turns serious again and his expression is grim. "Stark—I know you don't think much of her, and I know you don't think she's much of a hero. But to this country, she's _Iron Woman._ She's the hope that nearly died out seventy years ago when we thought we'd lost it in the ice. She brought that back for us. You don't have to like Stark—_I_ don't, most of the time—but show some respect for Iron Woman, because she's this country's hero now, just like Captain America was all those years ago. Still is."

Clint lets that sink in, but before Rogers has the opportunity to press for more—and he certainly looks like he's hungry for more—the door slides open and Nat steps in, sending Rogers a curt nod. A little dejectedly, Rogers rises from his seat and offers Clint a distracted smile before he heads out to give his report. Clint remains sitting, frowning at the wall opposite him, until Nat claims the seat Rogers had left and he sees that's she smirking.

His eyes narrow, immediately suspicious, and her smirk widens. "Good talk?"

Clint groans, feeling the strong urge to bang his head on the table. "_Please _don't make me do that again. I feel dirty."

Nat chuckles quietly, folding her arms over the table, the smile in her eyes completely insincere. "You're so good at heartfelt speeches; I thought it best it come from you. Stark responds to logic whereas Rogers responds to _emotion._ It had to be you."

He balks, not completely offended but reacting for the sake of it. "You're saying I'm emotional?"

"Yes."

Clint rolls his eyes, slumping forward unprofessionally and stretching his arms across from himself on the table. He grunts, "Why does Fury have us playing matchmaker, anyway?"

Nat shrugs, flipping her hair out of her face with a jerk of her chin, eyes on the windows behind Clint that offered view into the hall beyond. "I don't know. Fury just wants to make sure his dogs are all under one kennel, I guess."

Clint sniffs. "They're more likely to tear each other's throats out than play nice."

"I don't think it will come to that."

"Well, we better be getting paid for this shit," Clint mutters.

It had been on Fury's to-do list for quite some time, but the opportunity had never arisen and it wasn't until recently that things seemed to escalate—for the worse—between Rogers and Stark, where Clint had been hoping they could resolve their issues on their own. It's not that he thinks those two will ever be friends, given their completely opposing natures, but at the very least he'd like to be able to work with them without the threat of getting caught in the crossfire of one of their disagreements. Stark might think she'd cut ties with S.H.I.E.L.D., but that was only because she underestimated Fury's interest in her.

"It _might_ be," Nat says, apropos to nothing. "Easier, that is."

"Huh?" Clint frowns.

"On the other side. Not being the good guys," she explains, leading Clint to wonder just _how_ long she hadbeen listening when he realizes what she's talking about. "But—it's also lonelier. It's anger and hatred and just _darkness._ It's a horrible feeling—being lost on the other side. It's the worst feeling in the world."

And, of course, she would know best of all.

Clint says nothing, bowing his head and listening.

"This isn't about _winning_ a war, Clint," Nat says quietly. "There _are_ no sides. Leaders rise and fall—everybody dies; not everybody really lives. So long as we know our purpose, we can keep fighting—we can keep moving forward through our hell. Not all people are good—not all monsters are evil."

Clint's reply comes several minutes later, when silence has fallen and Nat's words have abandoned their echo. His words are not his own, but their depth is something Nat and Clint understand.

"In the time of Gods and monsters, what is the worth of a man?"

* * *

It's easy for Loki to follow the sickly sweet stench of Amora's magic; it had been all over Morgan. Still, Asgard is no small continent.

Loki materializes on the broken remains of the Bifrost, Banner at his side. Before them, Heimdall the Gatekeeper awaits them with stoic face.

"You've much courage to show yourself before me, Lie-Smith," Heimdall says in his deep rumble, expression unchanging.

"You know why I am here," Loki replies, not bothering with his usual pleasantries—knows better than to expect them to garner any response from the other God.

"Yes. I do."

"We seek retribution for crimes committed against us. It is within our right. Where is the Enchantress? Where is Amora?"

Heimdall's gaze is heavy upon him, assessing. "And what do _you_ know of loyalty, exiled Prince?"

"Please," Banner murmurs before Loki can respond—which is fortunate, because Loki's anger still burns sharply and his pride still smarts. "The Enchantress hurt someone we care about. She's using magic to turn her against us. We need to find her so she can break that spell."

"The mortal speaks out of turn," Heimdall says, turning his gaze to Banner. "And yet—your insolence is favorable to that of the viper at your side."

"Do you know where she is?" Banner asks, ignoring the slight against Loki.

Loki is familiar with Heimdall's piercing gaze, but so long absent its immediate intensity has made him weak and he feels its strength upon him like the weight of universe. Beside him, Banner shudders. An image burns itself into Loki's mind and he cringes while Banner falls to a knee, hand clutched to his head.

The second the pain has dissolved, Loki steps back, eyes on Banner's convulsing back. He sneers, "Damn."

It is by sheer miracle that when the Hulk awakens, roaring with rage, he leaps for Heimdall rather than Loki. As he descends upon the Gatekeeper, it is only then that Heimdall reacts—drawing sword and swinging with the flat at the blade at the beast. The blow catches the Hulk in the abdomen and sends him arcing backwards over Loki's head, to fall heavily onto the Bifrost. The bridge shudders beneath Loki's feet—and then the Hulk is upright and charging.

Loki swivels, holding out both hands and summoning a magical barricade that barely holds up when the Hulk barrels directly into it.

"Cease your mindless raging, beast!" Loki snarls, _beyond_ patience. "We have _purpose_ here! Or have you forgotten it in the absence of your better half?"

The Hulk growls, ducking to Loki's level to bare his teeth. "Hulk remembers _Puny_ God!"

"Fantastic," Loki grits his teeth, strengthening the barricade. "Anything _else?"_

The Hulk snorts, but he appears to be in a strangely reasonable mood as he doesn't make another attempt to strike the barrier. He shuffles in front of the barrier, and eventually, he grunts, "Ta … sha?"

"Natasha. Yes," Loki grumbles, sneering. "Of _course_ you'd remember her, wretched beast."

"Does Puny God want Hulks help or _not?_" Hulk snaps, marginally more coherent in his anger.

Loki barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes, but he lowers the barricade begrudgingly and nods.

And that's, of course, when the damnable beast clobbers him with one of his massive fists, sending him hurtling backwards to be delivered at Heimdall's feet.

Flat on his back, Loki struggles to contain his rage. When he opens his eyes, it is to Heimdall looking down at him, smirk on his damn lips!

* * *

With Heimdall's assistance burned into his mind, Loki locates the temple hidden deep in the forest in which Amora has secluded herself. Expectedly, it is fortified with all manner of enchantments—all of which Loki spots immediately and disarms. Great stone doors stand as the entrance, barred in thick ivy that twists in knots all across the doors and the height of the temple, undisturbed.

"Care to knock?" Loki mutters, still highly irritated, much to the amusement of the beast.

Beside him, the Hulk chuckles darkly, drawing a fist and crushing it forward—shattering the door and the entirety of the temple's façade with the single blow.

Before the dust has cleared, Loki catches the glint of metal emerging towards them from above—watches as the blade of a double-sided ax cleaves through the cloud of dust and reveals Amora's Executioner. The Hulk sights him as the ax descends upon his head—and not a second too late, the Hulk's arm lashes out, catching the Executioner's flank and flinging him to the side, deep into the forest.

"Take care of him," Loki mutters, eyes on the darkened interior behind the settling dust. "I shall deal with Amora."

The beast's response is a grunt before he takes off into the woods after Skurge.

Like the fool, Amora's makes her appearance at the very center of the temple, clad in leather armor unfit of a warrior, embellished in emeralds and gold. Her magic ripples around her body as she materializes. Her bewildered and furious scowl as she inspects the damage to her temple dissolves into one of surprise, then fear, when she sees Loki. As she had done with Morgan, Loki had repaid her the favor by cloaking himself and Banner to avoid spoiling the surprise of his visit.

Immediately, her magic begins to twist about herself—but before she can make her disappearance, Loki binds her magic and pins her in place with his own. The fear in her eyes blossoms as he strides across the debris to stand before her, his expression murderous.

"My _Lord!_" Amora laughs, feigning courage even while she struggles to free herself from his magic. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You may play your games with Thor, Enchantress, but I will not have it," Loki sneers as he reaches out, curling his hand about her slender throat as he towers above her. "You do not _interfere_ with me. You know this. So _why?"_

Amora's red-lipped smile splits across her pale face, wide with open amusement despite the bright terror in her eyes. "What's this, My Lord? Has your Jotun heart been thawed by the mortals? Or is it only _the_ mortal who has rendered you so _weak?_ Is this sentiment, dearest Loki? Is this—"

Loki's grip tightens with enough strength to have shattered Morgan. Amora chokes, reaching up to claw at his hand and Loki snarls, "Do I _look_ to be in a gaming mood, Amora?"

Her laugh is stilted by the lack of oxygen, but still she grins in defiance. "Isn't—e-everything?"

His hand tightens still, threatening life.

At last, Amora relents, pounding weak fists against his chest. She rasps, "E-enough! Enough!"

"Find _words_, Enchantress—before I remove the ability completely!" He releases her and she falls to her knees, clutching at her neck as she bows her head, shoulders heaving with breath. "Your _purpose._"

Amora coughs, sagging further against the stone floor. She keeps herself steady on one hand while the other massages her throat. "Just a jest, Prince," she rasps—and he can hear the laughter in her words. "Only a jest."

Loki snarls, reaching forward to grab a handful of blonde hair and jerk her head back so she was forced to look up at him. Amora winces, but her grin does not waver. "Enough _games_, Enchantress! You sought my attention. You have it. Now you will tell me why I shouldn't rend head from _neck."_

She laughs hoarsely, exclaiming in a hoarse voice, "Spoken like a _true_ son of Odin. _My_, won't the All-Father be _proud!"_

Growling angrily, Loki yanks her up by her hair, forcing her to stand. Amora cries out—in outrage rather than pain—and she glares, grin dissolved at last. "You try my patience," Loki murmurs murderously, leaning closer into her space. "I am not the Loki you once knew."

Amora's glare melts into a leer. She reaches out a manicured hand to drag long nails gently across his cheek and wets her lips as she smiles, "No, you are most certainly a _man_, now." She presses forward and he allows it, her lips a breath away from his. "One to rival beloved _brother_, perhaps?"

With a furious snarl, Loki jerks her away by her hair before releasing her and stepping back. Amora loses her balance and stumbles, but she does not fall. With a slow, knowing smile, she straightens, reaching a hand to tend to her hair while the other touches her fingers to her red-lipped smile.

"Loki the _Silver Tongue_. Loki the Lie-Smith—God of Mischief and of Chaos," she sings, laughter in her eyes. "My, my—_where_ has your Jotun heart _gone_?" Loki does not allow her the pleasure of reacting but it only seems to entertain her more. She chuckles, stepping forward to close the space between them, hands pressed to the firm armor beneath the Asgardian jacket, sliding upwards as she carefully appreciates every detail, until her arms have wrapped around his neck. She laughs, her breath falling across his chin, and she murmurs in delight, "War is _coming_, dearest Loki. Are you certain you have chosen the right side?"

This time, Loki does not push her away. He sneers, "Where I stand is of no concern to you, Enchantress. My allegiance belongs only to _one_."

Amora throws her head back in laughter, revealing a healed throat.

"Oh, yes, of that I am _sure!_"

* * *

It is with great weariness that Loki and Banner make the return journey to Midgard. They find Pepper in the Tower, awake despite the late hour, and her eyes betray freshly shed tears. She's standing behind the bar, two bottles of liquor in front of her, one two-thirds empty while the other is remains untouched. When she spots them, she immediately wipes at her cheeks and straightens her shoulders, speaking without prompt, "They're keeping her overnight and have her on some heavy medication so she will actually _rest."_

Banner sighs, both relieved and exhausted from the journey. "That's … _good_."

Loki says nothing—lacks words when his rage has robbed him of his patience for pleasantries. Amora dealt with and Morgan beyond his grasp, he is left with only himself to turn his rage upon in the absence of Natasha.

"So—um … " Pepper murmurs quietly, drawing their attention. Banner has settled himself on the lounge but Loki has not moved from where he had appeared—debates abandoning the Tower completely; abandoning the mortals who've brought him nothing but trouble. Pepper speaks again, distracting him from such thoughts. "I was—I was looking around. I don't know. I've just—I didn't know what else to do. Just—I …"

Pepper's lip quivers as her words break off and her hand flutters around the neck of the near finished bottle of brandy.

Banner releases a soft groan as he rises from his seat to cross the room and to the bar. He offers no physical contact other than his hand across the counter to cover hers. "It's going to be _fine_, Pepper. Natasha's _strong_. It's going to be okay."

"What did you find, Pepper?" Loki asks quietly when Pepper only shakes her head, mouth parting to speak but only revealing shuddering breaths.

Despite a reluctance he feels down to his bones, Loki joins them at the bar. He offers her no comfort because he has none to give—but then Pepper's eyes squeeze shut and she takes a steadying breath. When she opens her eyes again, her eyes are clearer and she looks to both of them.

"These," she says, gaze dropping to the liquor bottles.

Banner frowns, reaching out to inspect the labels on the bottles for lack of anything else. "What _about _them?"

Pepper shakes her head, her hands fluttering again over the counter nervously. "I know this is pretty pathetic but—"

It takes Loki only a second to realize her implication when he takes a moment to study the bottles—and finds that they are both of identical labels. His rage turns cold so _suddenly_—and yet it blazes larger than ever with the strength of a Jotun blizzard. His words are only a breath, barely formed, "Morgan. He … "

When he reaches out, he can see the tremor in his hand. He curls his fingers around the neck of the untouched brandy and it freezes immediately within its container, the glass frosting completely to crystal. He releases it, eyes on the second bottle, and he reaches out, grazing his fingertips across the label. A sharp green spark ignites under his touch and the bottle shudders away from him, dancing across the counter towards a stunned Pepper.

"Oh my God," Pepper whispers brokenly, brings her hands over her mouth to hide the tremble in her lips even as her eyes glisten.

"That's how he did it, then," Banner murmurs, grim.

"Right—_right_ under our noses," Pepper whispers, eyes squeezing shut. "In—I found that in—Natasha's … room. The one he … the one he was using … "

Banner brings a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "Well … Loki—he … he took care of it. Natasha's going to be okay, now."

Pepper sniffs, wiping her eyes and lowering her hands to her sides. She shakes her head and there's a helpless look in her eyes that Loki has never seen. "I—that's all I could find but I don't—I don't know if there's more."

Quietly, Loki murmurs, "Go home, Pepper. Rest. We'll take a look around."

Banner sighs, nodding wearily and dropping his hand to offer her a smile—only it's more of a grimace and Pepper seems incapable of accepting solace. "Yeah. That's a good idea. I'm sure Happy's worried."

"Y-yeah," she nods, staring at the near-empty bottle as if expecting it to come alive. When it doesn't, she nods again. "Okay. Yeah."

* * *

Banner does most of the work—inspecting the labs and the penthouse while Loki stands in Natasha's room and fights against the urge to destroy everything in sight. The bed is a mess and the dresser has been turned out—likely in Morgan's haste to escape. There are errant pieces of male clothing lying about the room, forgotten—a used glass at the bedside and an overturned floor lamp. Each little thing stands out as a beacon—evidence of Morgan's contamination.

Loki has all but decided upon setting fire to the room when a knock behind him disturbs his thoughts and he turns to see Banner at the door. "Anything?"

Loki turns his gaze away and somehow Banner takes his silence as answer.

He sighs, "Well, I don't think Morgan would have had access, but it wouldn't hurt to check the workshop."

If he even notices, Banner doesn't point out the fact that Loki had done nothing to inspect the bedroom—had left it untouched as he'd considered its destruction. Loki follows him out of the room to the elevator and presses his thumb to the scanner, murmuring their destination for JARVIS. The scanner beeps and the lift begins its descent.

It doesn't take long for Banner to break silence.

"Why can you just come and go from Asgard as you please? Doesn't exile imply you're meant to _stay_ out?"

Loki's attention is on the division between the elevator doors and the slashes of light that break through as they pass each floor.

Banner huffs. "Right. No answer. Of course."

"Did you expect differently?" Loki mutters, lacking the interest to engage Banner in quarrel. He did not trust his temper—which was, at the moment, being restrained by only the slenderest of tethers.

"Guess not," Banner replies. Then, "So the spell—it's broken?"

"Yes. The Enchantress has broken her curse."

He sees Banner turn to look up at him in the hazy reflection on the steel doors. "You're sure? What if she's lying?"

"She's not."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I can."

"But _how?"_

Loki scowls, glancing to Banner. "Because the Enchantress may be a coward, but she is not a fool. She knows better than to cross me."

Banner frowns. "Didn't she cross you already? What's stopping her from doing it again?"

Loki snorts, grunting, "Because she values her life more than she cares to entertain her schemes."

Hesitantly, Banner asks, "… And why didn't you kill her this time?"

Somehow, the question manages to amuse him. Loki smirks, and replies, "She's more valuable to me alive. And now—she owes me a _debt."_

Banner does not seem settled by the response, but he lays the matter to rest. The elevator arrives at its destination but the doors remain shut, requiring Loki to confirm his identity again with another scan of his thumb. Loki knows that JARVIS is not usually so strict with security—has less menial ways of identifying an individual—but he also knows Pepper has undoubtedly asked the program to run a tighter house.

"I don't understand why Natasha gives you access down _here,"_ Banner mutters, disgruntled as the doors open and they step into the hall towards Natasha's workshop.

Loki sighs, taking lead. "Let's not do this right now, Doctor Banner."

"Yeah," Banner grunts. "Sure."

When they enter, the lights flicker on, blinding in their intensity—but the monitors across the many workstations remain darkened in hibernation. As they move across the room, the lack of life has never been so resounding and for the first time, Loki cannot fathom how Natasha can stand surrounding herself amidst metal and machine. It threatens his patience now—brings to mind periods spent in the Isle of Silence for his insolence as a boy.

As Loki moves across the stations, he is careful not to touch anything—finding disdain in the elegant tools and intelligent machinery. Behind him, he hears Banner shuffle through Natasha's things—and then there's a hollow clutter that echoes throughout the room and Loki turns to see Banner has dropped an aluminum tray.

Banner is scowling down at something on the desk in front of him, bemused, "What the—I _swear_."

Though finding himself lacking interest, Loki crosses the room to join Banner. "What?"

Shaking his head, Banner snorts, running his gaze about the room. "Half the stuff in here I think Natasha just makes up so that the rest of us feel like idiots," he mutters, dropping his eyes again with a glare. "I mean, what the hell is _this?"_

Loki stands across the desk from him and looks down to see him nudging an elegant keyboard, keys glowing an electric blue to match the blue of Natasha's arc-reactor. "For JARVIS," Loki explains simply. "When she needs to rewrite his programming or she is required to work directly with him."

Banner looks surprised by the input and blinks. He then lifts the cordless keyboard and holds it carefully between his hands, squinting down at it. "There's—it looks like a bunch of symbols. I recognize some as electrical engineering figures, but—what the heck are the rest of these?"

"I do not know what they represent," Loki murmurs, looking away to turn his attention elsewhere. "I believe she adapted each symbol from various and equally diverse sources. Essentially—she and JARVIS speak in a language completely their own."

This elicits a chuckle out of Banner—before his humor is gone and he's grunting, "What the hell is _this_?"

Loki grits his teeth in irritation, glaring at Banner—only to find the man engrossed in an open file on Natasha's desk, flipping through it urgently. Loki recognizes it as one belonging to the stack Natasha had been inspecting the day before and scowls. "Can you focus? This isn't your first time down here."

"No. Seriously—" Banner shakes his head, flicking his eyes up at Loki, anxiety furrowing his brow. "Do you know what this _is_, Loki?"

Loki studies Banner's expression—before he relents with a sigh, glancing between the file in Banner's hands to the stack beside him. "I do not understand her scientific jargon, so _no_, I don't. She's building a new suit, which I believe she intends to integrate with this … Extremis. Whatever that may be."

Banner looks sick—face several shades whiter. He wets his lips nervously, shaking his head as he looks up at Loki. "This is _not_ for any _suit_. This …"

Immediately, Loki is on alert. The anxiety in Banner's eyes and the quake in his words is enough to set him on edge and he steps around the desk to Banner's side to better look at the document he holds. Still, as he reads, little of it makes any sense. For all the time he has spent with Natasha and familiarized himself with her machines, the language of it still eluded him.

Leveling Banner with a glare, Loki snaps, "Explain."

"You—" Banner cuts himself, inhaling deeply as he looks between the file and Loki. "There—There have been many attempts to recreate the Super Soldier Solution in the past—not any of them successful."

Loki nods, aware. "You and Pym. Yes. I know."

"But we're only _two_ of countless others who have dedicated their lives to solving the riddle of Erksine's formula," Banner explains, breathless. Amidst the anxiety, Loki sees a spark of excitement—buried under concern, but present. "Extremis ... Extremis is one of these formulas."

"How can you be sure?"

Banner huffs a wry and humorless laugh. "Loki—my life was _destroyed_ by my greed and the greed of the people who hungered for this formula. I know it and its variations better than _anyone_ else. This is a Super Soldier Solution. Trust me."

Loki frowns. "What use does Natasha have for it?"

Turning back to the file, Banner studies it for a moment before speaking, "You said—she's working on a new suit?"

"She wants to integrate her nanotechnology into it."

Banner's head jerks up with a curse on his lips, a flash of anger in his eyes that gives way to a flicker of green. "Which is still experimental, at best! God_dammit_, Natasha!"

Loki scowls, setting a hand to Banner's shoulder and shaking him to regain his focus. "What? What is she doing?"

Shakily, Banner lowers himself to her chair and sets the Extremis file on the desk. Quietly, he murmurs, "I think she intends to combine the Extremis with her nanotech."

"Why?"

Banner bows his head, removing his glasses. "Because of _me."_

And though Loki may not understand yet what about this discovery has Banner on edge, it is easy enough to deduce the purpose of his involvement.

"The Hulk."

Banner sighs. "Yeah."

For some reason, this admission is upsetting. Loki clamps down on the ominous feeling impatiently. "What does it do?"

Shaking himself, Banner replaces his glasses and turns to the file, leaning over it and forming a barricade with his arms around the file as if fearing its secrets should escape. "It looks like—it looks like they've fitted a few billion graphic nanotubes into a—well, it's like a bio-electronics package. They use a carrier fluid to—"

Loki snarls, "I _told_ you I don't—"

"It's like a magic _bullet—_filled with a Super Soldier Serum," Banner explains, exasperated and weary. He takes a moment to scan the file longer before speaking. "They're using Natasha's nanos to _guide_ the serum—to hack into the part of the brain that keeps a complete blueprint of the human body. When we're injured, we refer to that area of the brain to heal. This serum—this _Extremis_—it's … rewriting_ all _of that_."_

"What does that _mean?"_

"It—give me a moment—" Banner mutters, reading quietly while Loki feels himself bristle beside him. Eventually, he blurts, "Stages. There are stages. The—oh _god_." Banner tears away from the pages in disgust, craning his neck up at Loki with a horrified expression. "In the _first_ stage—the body is like an … _open wound._" Banner swallows, turning back to the file—voice weaker with every word. "The serum replaces the normal human blueprint with the Extremis blueprint. God—_what?_ It's—this is—it _tells_ the brain that the body is _wrong, _and so the brain turns against its host—tries to—_oh my god._"

"Banner. Keep _reading_."

And so he does, hands shaking upon the pages. "'Extremis … Protocol … dictates that the … _subject_ be … put on life support and … intravenously fed nutrients at this point. For the next two or three days—the subject remains unconscious in a … cocoon of … _scabs'._"

Loki frowns, trying to understand Natasha's intentions. "This doesn't kill them?"

"The nanos—they're programmed to use the nutrients and body mass to build new organs. Better ones."

It's not an answer.

Loki tightens his grip on Banner's shoulder and offers a firm shake. "Would it _kill_ them?"

"I … " Banner looks up at him, expression twisted in disgust and horror. "Loki, I don't know. Obviously—ideally, _no._ But if even _one_ mistake was made …"

Loki is not of a mind for this kind of Midgardian science. He scowls, demanding, "What does this have to do with her suit?"

Banner takes a shaky breath, his gaze falling away from Loki's to settle on a distant point. "The … Extremis is injected into the body … I—I'd have to look at the specs for the suit. I don't know _what_ she needs a new suit for. Extremis—Extremis would make it so she wouldn't _need_ it. It's a Super Soldier Serum. It would turn her—if it _worked—_it'd turn her into another Captain America."

And suddenly—Loki understands Banner's terror.

The terrible, ominous feeling in his gut grows and words leave him in a breath:

"Or another Hulk."

* * *

**End Notes**: There may or may not be more to that Amora and Loki scene, but you'll find out. It didn't just cut off so abruptly for no reason.

Anyway, sorry for the delay! I meant to post sooner, but as you can tell, this was quite the beast. There was a lot going on and it was difficult to find balance as I was writing it. Going from Loki's rage to Natasha's shock, some heart-to-hearts, a fight scene and then concluding it with another mysterious little morsel—_very_ difficult chapter indeed. I'd had the dialogue written beforehand (which sometimes I need to do to set a flow), but obviously there is always more going on than what is said and that was very difficult to write. Writing Loki is especially tricky because there are certain things I can't have him revealing just yet.

Also, yes JARVIS edited that recorded audio to exclude Spiderman. Was that Loki's doing or JARVIS'? The fact that JARVIS did this for Spiderman's benefit is irrelevant. What's of note is only that JARVIS _would_ omit certain truths, even without Loki's request. Guess that's something else you can chew on.

Loki's language in this chapter seems to belay his heart more than his mind is aware. I kind've liked seeing him so riled up. You've probably picked up on it, but there is a notable difference in the patterns of his speech depending on his mood and also the environment. Among people he might trust, like Pepper and Natasha (and maybe even Bruce), his speech is a little more comfortable.

Regarding the last scene: The nanotechnology is something Natasha was working on from the first story, if anyone remembers the brief mention of it. She and JARVIS mention it the first time she's abroad the Helicarrier, after capturing Loki. The idea of involving Extremis has been something I'd had planned from the beginning, before the announcement of Iron Man 3's premise, and I find it rather humorous that my story happened to follow a similar path.

**SPECIAL THANKS TO KAORI WHO PROVIDED ME WITH A WONDERFUL PLAYLIST TO WRITE THIS CHAPTER! THIS LITTLE MONSTER IS DEDICATED TO YOU!**


	11. I Bend (But Don't Break)

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Genius meets prodigy.

* * *

Chapter Ten:

_I Bend (But Don't Break)_

"You know you don't have to do this … "

Pepper doesn't look up from where her deft hands are smoothing new bedding across Natasha's mattress and arranging pillows against the headboard. She feels Happy's eyes on her from the door but they feel like a weight than a balm. As she moves about the bedroom, restoring it back to its original form, she tries to pretend she doesn't notice the tremor in her hands—but it extends up her arms and through her shoulders and it has her heart and her lungs and the vibrations persist even to her core. She shivers as if cold—as if lying naked under six feet of snow—but it isn't the weather that affects her; it's the misery in her heart that aches and aches and _aches._

And in her mind—a single worry, louder than all the rest.

Because Natasha has been betrayed far too many times—never broken.

But it may just be that _this_ … is _one_ too many.

"She's comin' home, Pep. She's _fine_ now. Agent Coulson told us so himself."

Pepper's hand falters where it's tucking a corner of sheet under the mattress. It takes a moment to remember to breathe, and then she asks, "Where's Loki?"

"I—uh … haven't seen him, actually."

"What about Bruce?" Pepper stands, surveying the room for more evidence of Morgan's presence.

"Haven't … seen him either," Happy replies, confused.

Pepper frowns, looking sharply to Happy. "What about _Peter?"_ Happy shakes his head and Pepper snaps, "Then where the hell _are_ they?"

Startled, Happy shakes his head helplessly, "Pep, I don't _know._"

"Natasha is coming back and no one is here," Pepper intones, eyes wide and expression distraught. She begins to pace, burying her hands in her hair. "Why is nobody _here?"_

"Well, _maybe_ … " But Happy trails off—because he doesn't _know._

"This is ridiculous," Pepper exhales, feeling panic fall over her. "Someone should _be_ here … "

Urgently, Happy abandons the door and crosses the room to her, pulling her into his arms.

"_We'll_ be here."

* * *

The Enchantress' hold is toxic, layered over her mind like a thick coat of oil paint; an imitation of normalcy—and, somehow, while she had been oblivious to the other's machinations, she knows the instant Amora's hold is gone; like turpentine thinning the layer of paint and clearing her mind to herself. Memories filter in like soft smoke through the gap between door and floor. The memory of emotion follows—the memory of anger and hurt and betrayal—but they feel foreign to her; can't seem to find a home within her and so they're left to drift and evaporate and she's left with a different kind of hurt—a different kind of betrayal.

But Natasha hasn't gotten to where she is by pitying herself.

When life fucks her over, she can't linger on the hurt or the anger or even the _resentment_—because that's how battles are fucking _lost_ and she was a tactician—she was _logical_—above all else.

She thinks she would need eternity to sort through everything that's happened—to sort through all her emotions—and find a solution, but it's easy once she's made the conscious decision to strip away what she _feels_ and substitute it with clear _thought._

Without Amora's influence, she can see now what she was too blind to notice before. Every flicker of her past—the memory of her father when she had visited the manor with Morgan; the memory of Howard and Obadiah at the factory; the memory of her mother in her office—had been a beacon of warning that she had been too blinded to acknowledge. Her mood, her temperament, the muddling of her thoughts …

Morgan had won.

Morgan had _beat_ her.

(It's easier to focus on _this_ than to think about the pieces that had been ripped from her core in light of his betrayal.)

But his actions had brought to light something far greater.

For all the enemies lurking within their own home, there were still those beyond Earth who sought to harm the people she'd sworn to protect; through_ her,_ no less. She knew too little about Amora for comfort, but from what she had gleaned, the Asgardian played at a level beyond the likes of the Sandman and Otto Octavius. Natasha would never again underestimate what an Asgardian was capable of and the memory of the Chitauri and the devastation Loki had wrought still lingered freshly in her mind.

She had chosen this when she had accepted the mantle of Iron Woman—even if, at the time, she hadn't realized the extent of her responsibilities. But this was not something Iron Woman _alone_ could solve.

* * *

Pepper is already waiting for her in the lobby of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters the moment she is discharged and Natasha is careful not to meet the other woman's gaze, averting any chance Pepper might have taken to look into her eyes and study the damage incurred. Beside her, Coulson shifts—has been fidgeting nervously the entire ride down from the Director's office—but she keeps the observation to herself. From his pocket, Coulson withdraws a slender card that he holds out to Natasha.

"Here," he murmurs, "Take this with you."

Automatically, Pepper moves to accept the card, but Natasha plucks it from Coulson's hand instead, pocketing it immediately without inspection. "Fine. Tomorrow," she says, carefully vague.

She is not oblivious to the way Coulson and Pepper exchange a _look_, but she averts her gaze to feign obliviousness.

Finally, Coulson clears his throat, turning to Natasha with a concerned frown. "Ah—it can wait. If you need longer—"

"Tomorrow is fine," she replies shortly, cutting her gaze back to him. "Best to get started sooner than later."

There is no sarcasm in her tone—no humor in her expression. She's serious in a way she rarely allows herself to be among others and it silences any instinct to argue; Coulson and Pepper merely share a parting nod and then Natasha is turning away, leading the way out of the lobby.

No words fall between them on the ride back to the Tower. She feels Pepper's eyes on her as she contemplates the window, but her mind is on the memories that hang over her like a shadow, pressing down upon her until they have engraved their place.

The drive seems to last almost no time at all and as the car slows to a crawl, Natasha snaps back to the present and sits forward, preparing to take her leave. Then, her eyes find Pepper's, watching her with open worry.

Sitting back with a weary sigh, Natasha feels ages older when she lacks the strength to smile.

"I'm fine," she murmurs without prompting, turning her eyes away.

Pepper is skeptical. "… _Are_ you?"

Natasha feels leeched of the ability to manufacture a proper lie. "Yes."

Pepper sits forward. "What was Coulson talking about? What's tomorrow?"

Natasha regards her reflection in the window. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

Happy has stepped out onto the sidewalk, lingering in front of her door uncertainly. Natasha frowns.

"You don't keep secrets from me," Pepper says anxiously as Natasha tugs roughly on the car handle and opens the door forcefully, startling Happy.

Natasha sighs, the sound lost to the din of the city, and then replies simply, "I can't always tell you everything." She steps out onto the street but doesn't allow Pepper to follow as the other scoots down the bench-seat to the door. Natasha blocks the door, one arm flung overtop the door and the other on the hood of the car. She looks down at Pepper without adjusting her posture to put their faces at a more even level—and she knows her expression is cold and harsh in a way that it never is with Pepper when the other flinches visibly.

Pepper frowns, suddenly hesitant to voice thought. "Natasha … "

"It's for your own good," Natasha mutters. And then, before she can argue, Natasha steps back and begins shutting the door on Pepper, saying, "You're dismissed."

Stunned, Pepper jolts forward, reaching out a hand to halt the door, eyes wide, "Wait, _what—?"_

Pepper doesn't push at the door and Natasha doesn't budge. With one long, hard, look at Pepper, Natasha glances over her shoulder to meet Happy's frown. "You, too."

"Natasha, you—" Pepper tries to argue.

Looking back to Pepper, Natasha remains unwavering—even in the face of the hurt and worry reflected in Pepper's eyes.

"I mean it. Go home. Go to work. I don't care," she says in a tone Pepper will recognize—a tone she hasn't had occasion to use in all the time Pepper has been employed under her.

She says in a tone of an _employer_ rather than _friend_:

"Leave."

* * *

_"Let's get started—ah …"_

From somewhere off-screen, Steve recognizes Stark's voice. _"Hey—would it be alright if everyone … sat down? Why don't you just sit down? That way you can see me and I can … "_

In a room full of reporters, Stark is difficult to spot at first. With much hesitance, the reporters lowers themselves to take a seat on the floor as indicated, exchanging nervous and uncomfortable looks between themselves—self-conscious smiles betraying their bemusement.

_"… a little less formal,"_ Stark mumbles around her hamburger as she trails off—and Steve sees her clearly now, seated in front of the podium, one arm locked snugly to her chest in a sling. She chews idly, a strange calm about her—as if she were enjoying her meal in the comfort of her home rather than her own press conference following the supposedly traumatic events of her capture.

The elder gentleman behind the podium holds his smile as he surveys the room; he is the last to lower himself to floor, taking his seat beside Stark. His expression becomes indulgent when Stark glances to him, swallowing to mumble something the cameras fail to catch. The older man's smile widens, though it holds a sliver of something unnamed as he reaches out to grip Stark's shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

And then, just loud enough for the microphones to pick up, Stark turns to the reporters and says, _" … I never got to say goodbye to dad."_

… And Steve feels _gutted._

He swallows—feels simultaneously hot from shame and cold from misery and the world around him is gone. There is only the tablet in his hand and the ear-buds plugged into his ears—there is only Stark sitting in front of that podium, the gentleman's hand still gripping her shoulder in comfort and her earnest expression, still somehow absent of vulnerability.

"_I never got to say goodbye to my father,_" she says clearly to her audience—casually; conversationally. She sets her burger aside and her brows pull together—pensively—her gaze focused beyond the reporters and the cameras on some distant horizon. The gentleman's hand drops, expression sobered by Stark's admission; and Stark, oblivious to the solemnity, goes on, _"There's questions that I would've asked him. I would've asked him—how he felt about what this company _did—_"_

There is a way that Stark speaks—as if each word held personal meaning to every individual in the room. There is a familiarity in her tone and in the subject of her words that silences any sound. Her eyes abandon the distance to study her audience with interest—each glance meant to convey severity and holding an incredible weight that seemed impossible to translate.

_" … If he was _conflicted_. If he ever had _doubts," she goes on, speculatively. There is no hint of that playful, sardonic persona Steve is familiar with. All humor is stripped from her expression and voice—and if this is all a ruse, it is _flawless._ "_Or_ … _maybe he _was_ every inch the man we all remember from the news reels …"_

It strikes Steve, then—with those words—the _injustice_ that he should have been given the privilege to know Howard and experience all that he _had_ with Howard … when all that Stark seemed to have to remember him by were _news reels. _

Stark's eyes find something to lock on—and her expression is faraway and carefully masked. Only the flicker of something haunting echoes in the depths of her eyes, but it is diluted by distance and film. _"I saw young Americans killed … by the very weapons … I created to defend them and protect them—and I saw I … had become a part of a system … that was okay with _zero_ accountability—"_

From a quiet murmur, the reporters gain voice, raising hands and questions with careful interest. Stark nods and a single voice speaks for the rest: _"What … happened over there?"_

Just like several nights before, Steve sees it the moment the Stark façade falls into place. Stark jolts as if animated by the question, jumping to her feet. _"I—I had my _eyes_ opened,"_ she declares, walking around to stand behind the podium. "_I came to realize that I had more to offer this world than just making things that blow up—and that's why, effective immediately, I am _shutting down_ the weapons manufacturing—_"

Chaos breaks out within the press room at once and Steve doesn't try to make out what is being said, eyes locked on the image of Stark being patiently ushered away from the podium by the gentleman at her side.

He's so caught up in the footage that he's startled when his left ear-bud is plucked out and a cheerful voice is saying, "I hope you're planning to buy something. You can't sit here unless you do."

Reflexes barely restrain him from jerking away or reacting violently to the intrusion into his space. Carefully, Steve lowers the tablet and looks up, recognizing the pretty blonde waitress he's seen on more than one occasion throughout his patronage of the little café.

"… Excuse me?" Steve murmurs, frowning—which seems to earn him a brilliant smile.

"Your _order?_ You need to order something or I'm afraid—"

"Oh—oh. Yes, yes. Sorry. Just a coffee is fine. Black." He feels a little off balanced—is still struggling to fit together the newly acquired pieces to the puzzle that was Natasha Stark.

The waitress doesn't bother writing down his order, nor does she leave to retrieve it. Instead, she blinks down at his tablet with interest and smiles appreciatively, "Wow. Is that the new Stark Tablet?"

Bemused, Steve's gaze drops to the slender tablet, turning it about in his hand—the size of a medium-sized book and a transparent interactive screen, Steve had spent more time trying to understand how to get it to cooperate with the most basic of commands than he had inspecting its manufacturer. Sure enough, he spots the Stark logo branded along the bottom of the tablet's frame.

"I suppose it is," he murmurs, feeling as if the tablet suddenly held more significance by virtue of its brand.

The waitress laughs sweetly, "You don't _know_?"

Steve looks up at her, feeling uncomfortable with his smile. "I'm … not good with technology."

She laughs again. "Then I guess it's fortunate you have a friend like Ms. Stark, hm?"

Steve frowns. "Excuse me?"

The waitress blinks—brows drawing together as it seems to occur to her that she may have made a mistake. "You _are_ Steve Rogers, right? Captain America?"

Strangely at a loss for words, Steve only nods.

She smiles, "Aren't you good friends with Iron Woman? It's all over the papers. I've seen you two on television—when you were fighting that … _Doctor Octopus."_ Suddenly, her smile dissolves into grief. "Oh. And I heard about what happened at her factory. All those people …"

"The man responsible has been captured and will face judgment for his crimes," Steve assures her, sitting up to match the severity of his tone.

She nods; her smile a little less bright, but just as sincere. "We're lucky to have you and Iron Woman to look out for us. _Thank you."_

* * *

Natasha doesn't sleep—has had enough of sleeping and is too restless with the thought of things to do that she can't sit still long enough for rest. She spends the day in her workshop revisiting old blueprints and it's well into the next morning before she abandons her station to venture upstairs into the penthouse. She picks through the fruit bowl for something to sustain her and pulls something caffeinated from the mini-fridge at the bar, retreating to her office with 'breakfast' in hand and her Stark Tablet in the other.

When she sets the tablet on the desk and takes a seat in her chair, she has only to brush her fingers over a command on the screen and the display comes alive, serving as a base for the hologram that projects from it. The display is of a complex design for a building, and she plucks through the wireframe of the model as if it were something tangible—the bracelet around her wrist allowing her to interact with the hologram—removing and rearranging the floor plans as new ideas spring to mind.

Only when she takes a moment to pause, mulling over her half-eaten apple, does she become aware of a strange feeling that has settle over her shoulders—a feeling of displacement, as if she were a stranger within her own home. It draws her thoughts away from her work and she sits back, feeling troubled.

Her eyes flick to the far left corner of her office—in the direction she knows her bedroom to be—and the troubled feeling grows as memories threaten to return.

It is not only Morgan's betrayal that consumes thought, but also that of the threat of Amora and the threat of every other would-be _villain_ who has been inspired to take up cause against Iron Woman. For the first time, she truly regrets exposing her identity—neutralizing any possibility of protecting those close to Natasha Stark from the consequences of being Iron Woman.

If only—

Abruptly, the apple in her hand becomes like _ice_, the cold biting into her palm and startling her into dropping the fruit where it falls heavily on the desk. Her eyes follow the apple as it rolls off the desk and to the floor, the skin of the fruit layered in a thick frost—and without looking, she knows it is Loki, because who else _could_ it be, but a part of her jumps to thought of _Amora_ and it gives her dreadful pause.

Hesitantly, she lifts her eyes, peering through the translucent hologram to find Loki standing by the door, Asgardian garb in place of suit and scarf. He stands like royalty—like a _God_—shoulders drawn back and hands tucked at his lower back, chin held loftily and green eyes like frozen emeralds—bright and dangerous.

She takes a moment to study him in silence, careful not to linger on his expression or make the mistake of meeting his eyes for longer than necessary. A jittery tension replaces the relative calm she has managed to retain—slinking beneath the surface of her skin and enveloping every muscle in its electric hold. Her stomach churns with nervous anticipation and the urge to _flee_ is almost overwhelming.

It isn't fear that grips her—or even _anger_. But it's _something_ and everything in her is screaming in objection and she is largely inclined to listen.

Pride stays her retreat and when Loki says nothing, she drops her eyes to the tablet and mutters, "Preparing for a battle, I see," in a tone that is vaguely challenging as she idly twirls a hand through the projected building.

In any other situation—at any other time—she'd be inclined to point out how much of a creeper he was for suddenly appearing the way he did, without an announcement of his presence. Yet—she can't even _look_ at the man without a surge of conflicting emotions that refuse to be understood and it's harder to be in his presence than it had been to sit in the car with Pepper and Happy. Loki doesn't make it easier by playing the mute—she can _feel_ intent radiating off him in _waves._

She bites her tongue for several moments that pass like hours, reluctant to break silence. The nervous feeling grows and she can't concentrate on the designs—looks through them, instead, to study the grain of her desk while her thoughts churn in distress.

"What?" She snaps when the feeling of Loki's glare boring down on her becomes too much. She powers off the screen on her tablet, exasperated, and looks up, gaze fixed on a point just above Loki's shoulder. "You want to say something. _What_?"

"Even if I had the words—would you _listen?"_ There is something sharp—something _cold—_hidden under the quietly spoken words.

Natasha sighs again, bringing a hand to her face, fingers massaging the bridge of her nose. She feels _exhausted._

Shaking her head, she stands abruptly, maneuvering around the desk and heading for the door. "I'm not in the mood for this," she grunts as she brushes past him, stepping into the hall.

"Is this how you _listen?"_ Loki calls after her as he follows her into the hall.

She stops, shaking her head in exasperation. She doesn't turn around, muttering, "If you have something to say—_say_ it."

Loki doesn't spare another moment, accusation in his words. "A man makes attempt at your life—and your response is to _spare_ him?"

It's hard _not_ to be angry—but the anger feels unfocused and threatens to consume and she doesn't want that. Doesn't want her mind clouded yet again and her actions dictated by a state lacking of reason. She blinks several times, emotion prickling hotly behind her eyelids. She breathes deeply through her nose and mouth, grasping to maintain her composure as she turns to face Loki.

"'A man' is my _cousin_. Someone _you_ tried to _kill,"_ she replies quietly; she meets his eyes and—carefully neutral—adds, "Something I won't soon _forget_."

"I do not regret my actions," Loki says, stepping closer and holding out a hand—palm turned to the ceiling—in a gesture that echoes the way his hand had held onto Morgan without actual contact. "Only that my hand was stayed before retribution could be had."

She watches his hand and remembers the brilliance and purity of the magic that had curled about his fingers—threatening Morgan's life.

His words filter into her mind sluggishly—and she takes her time determining their meaning. Then, she frowns, flicking her eyes up at him incredulously. "You—are you actually _upset_ with me_?" _His expression is masterfully vacant and her incredulity deepens the furrow between her brows and twists her lips in a disbelief. "_Why_? Because I wasn't going to stand by while you _murdered_ my _cousin?"_

Unexpectedly, Loki jerks his head to look away from her in frustration—then back to snarl, "He would have had you _dead."_

"_Amora_ would have had me dead," Natasha corrects, voice rising. "Morgan just—"

Loki points a finger in her direction, sneering in disbelief, "You _defend_ him?"

Natasha stills—sees _red_—but she clamps down on her instinctive urge to lash out in vehement response, teeth grinding over the words and eyes fluttering shut for a second as the rage bleeds out of her vision. Despite everything, Loki is as undeserving of her anger as Pepper—though he certainly had done more to earn it. She won't soon forget the murderous resolve in his eyes as he'd looked upon her cousin—but she can't ignore that his actions had not been born of villainous intent.

A traitorous part of her wants to push the blame upon him—wants to lay all her problems upon him and allow him to take the fall so that she may escape. Yet, just when she thinks the words will escape—something holds her back, paralyzing her tongue.

Because …

Maybe Amora would never have taken notice of her if not for Loki—but Natasha would have never become a target without Iron Woman.

There's so much sitting at the tip of her tongue that she's unable to speak—so many thoughts that have taken claim within her mind.

For the first time, she feels isolated by responsibility.

She hadn't realized how much she had come to rely upon Loki's aid—but things have changed. Realizations have been made and all that is left is a choice.

With another breath to steady her resolve, she asks, "What exactly are you here for? Are you just here to make me feel like _crap?_ Because—_thank you_—there's no need. It's _done. _My own _cousin_ tried to kill me. I don't think there's much else you could _say_."

"I _told_ you—!"

"Dear _God_, here we _go,"_ Natasha groans, turning away and storming down the hall, towards the main room.

"You run because you know that I am _right_—"

Natasha twists, marching back to Loki and shoving both hands against his chest, shouting up at him, "I am _not_ running!"

Loki's rage burns brightly and he is unmoved by her force. He snarls angrily, "You should have let me—!"

She steps back, jabbing two fingers violently into the layers of leather and cloth covering his chest. "You do not have a fucking_ right_ to _kill—!"_

Something violent flashes behind his eyes as he reaches out to clasp a hand to the back of her neck, bending so their faces are level and inches apart, snarling, "_You_ do _not_ presume to _command_ me!"

She slams her palms against his chest and jerks out of his hold, all but screaming, "Nor do _you_ get to _tell me_ what the _fuck_ to _do!" _

An emotion that isn't exactly anger crushes down upon her and she isn't prepared for it. The fury in Loki's eyes and the accusation in his words rake over her, biting into every flaw of her resolve and making room for doubt. Emotion swells in her chest and her belly and it feels desperate—is _maddening_—and she has to rip her eyes away from him as her heart practically vibrates in her chest so fiercely she can feel its echo even in the tips of her fingers.

She thinks that it might be her imagination that their raised voices echo in the penthouse long after words have been spent; Natasha glares back at Loki out of the corner of her eyes, flushed from anger and frustration, lips twisted in indignation. The look in his eyes is almost enough to shock her out of her ire—so focused and piercing and fueled by a _rage_ she has never seen directed at her. His breathing is labored—like it is taking everything in his control not to unleash his Godly wrath upon her and the Tower.

He is suddenly in her face again, eyes bright with violence and lips curled in anger, hand lashing out to grip the side of her face and draw her in close. "That is the _last_ time," he hisses, something hateful coloring his tone. "The _last_ time I spare a life for your sake."

Natasha huffs a sardonic laugh, staring up at him in angry disbelief. She sneers, "Oh. _Ha. _I always forget what a _standup_ _man_ you—"

"I am not a mere _man_!" Loki _thunders_—and the walls seem to _quake_ with his voice. Natasha flinches under his glower and he snarls, "I am a _God!" _Loki's hand is gripping the side of her face almost hard enough to hurt. The strength of his grip forces her head at an angle and she glares up at him as he sneers, "You would do well to remember that."

Loki's anger makes no sense and a slow realization falls into place—that there is more fueling his rage than she understands. Their breathing is equally labored and hot against the other's cheek, neither willing to break away. The pressure of Loki's thumb pressed firmly into her cheek, just under her eye, is distinct to the fingers nearly digging into her scalp—it gives her something to focus on that isn't her own anger and though it is not so easily extinguished, she feels herself become slowly begin to calm.

She holds his eyes for a long moment before speaking, tone hard and quiet, "You're hurting me."

Almost immediately, she feels the grip slacken, the anger in his eyes dimming—flickering for a second in realization. Then, he pulls away sharply, his hand curling into a fist just above her cheek.

"I don't know how this is any of your concern," Natasha sighs, dropping her head, eyes on the ground. "Morgan's _my_ problem, not yours."

Loki takes her chin, raising her face and forcing her eyes to meet his. He grits out, "If Amora is involved, it _is_ my problem."

Her brows pinch together in an almost pained expression, her tone almost pleading. "Then go _deal_ with Amora. Leave Morgan to _me._"

Loki's scowl darkens. He grinds out, shaking his head, "He cannot go unpunished—"

"He will _not_ go unpunished," Natasha counters, growing desperate when it seems that they can only commit to replaying the same argument without either willing to relinquish ground.

"Imprisonment?" Loki scoffs, rearing his head back and dropping his hand with a short, sardonic laugh. "_That_ is to be his penance? He made attempt at your _life!"_

"And _what_ would you have me _do_, Loki?" She demands, arms wide to invite suggestion. "_Kill_ him? Is _that_ your _elegant_ solution?"

"Yes!" Loki snaps, whipping out a hand to gesture at her. "He spared no such regard in doing the same to _you!_"

Natasha shakes her head fiercely in frustration, pulling her gaze away to focus elsewhere.

It's too much to deal with. Loki's anger and Pepper's concern; her own guilt and the responsibilities she knows she can no longer ignore. She feels like she's being pulled under a current, under the depths of an endless sea, rapidly losing sight of the surface …

Thoughtlessly, she mutters, "… And should Thor have sentenced you to death, as well?"

She doesn't recognize the truth of her words until after she's spoken them—and then she's thinking about Loki's traitorous past and his crimes against his family and his people. It occurs to her that she should feel indignant to be the target of his ire when Morgan's actions could be a reflection of Loki's own.

But her anger doesn't return—and then Loki is snarling, "By the _Gods_—what does _Thor_ have to do with anything? How is that _his_ name always finds its way to your _tongue?"_

She shakes her head, holding her hands up in concession. "Nothing. _Nothing_. Just—forget it. Drop it."

"No," Loki says, tone hard.

It's as if, after every successful attempt to quell her anger, Loki knows exactly how to dig it out and ignite it once more. She wants to _scream_ in frustration—has to grit her teeth to resist the urge completely. Her hand is curled into a fist and her arm has swung out, slamming her forearm against the wall, before she can restrain herself. She's shouting again, _beyond_ exasperation, "Jesus _Christ,_ Loki! Why are we _arguing?_ I don't want to _fight_ with you, _goddammit_! _Please_, just—_please?_ Can you _not—?"_

"_You_ put yourself in danger by sparing the life of a man who's set against you!" Loki bellows, his rage returning full-force.

And—she _knows._ She's _well aware_—but she doesn't _care!_ Loki seems to blame her for Morgan's transgressions and that is _fine_—because she blames herself, too! But she doesn't need to _hear_ it. She doesn't need him to remind her that she had _failed!_ That Morgan had won and the cost had been _too great._ She hates herself _enough_ without Loki weighing in on the matter.

"You know _what?"_ she snaps, closing in on him and jabbing a finger into his collar with every word. "I don't _give_ a shit! What Morgan did—well, _fuck_ him! But you know what? Maybe family doesn't mean anything to _you_, and maybe it doesn't mean anything to _Morgan_—but it means something to _me_ so you do _not_ get to lecture me on the merits of sparing his life because it's _not_ up for discussion! _Understood?"_

Loki's lips are pressed firmly, and his jaw works tightly—mulling over the words before he speaks them. Stubbornly, he sneers, "If I lay eyes upon that man again, I—"

"Will do _nothing_," she counters bitingly. "If you don't want to lose _this,"_ she adds, gesturing between them. "You make _one_ move against him—we're _done."_

She punctuates the statement with a final jab, twisting on her heel and storming away. She hears him following her into the main room but she ignores him, marching straight for the elevators.

Behind her, Loki calls out, "You would choose _him_ over _me? _He _betrayed_—"

Loki cuts himself off and Natasha whips around, arm outstretched and pointing back at him. "Yeah!" Natasha snaps, anger turning cold and replaced by something darker. She sneers, "_Exactly_. Before you go spouting your self-righteous _bullshit_—just remember where _you_ stood a year ago. I trusted _you_, too, once. Look how well that turned out for me."

Loki shakes his head, a look of disgust falling over his expression. "Do not compare me with that _worm._ I would _never_ have—"

"It doesn't _matter_!" she snaps, cutting her hand between them as if she could shove aside the matter altogether—then burying it into her hair in mounting aggravation. "_Morgan_ will be dealt with. Leave it at that." Her eyes narrow and she levels him with a glare. "Worry instead why a fucking _Asgardian_ wanted me dead in the _first_ place."

Loki frowns, bemused, and only then does his anger finally seem to simmer down. "Amora—"

"You keep going on about Morgan," Natasha snaps, dropping her hand from her hair and glowering. "What about _her?_ What '_punishment'_ did you reserve for _her?"_

Something flickers behind his eyes, too quick to be discerned. There is no hesitation before he speaks, but there might as well have been. "She was dealt with."

Natasha scoffs and her mouth twists in a sardonic smile. She crosses her arms, arching a brow expectantly. "Oh? Did you _kill_ her?"

Loki's frown deepens. He bites out a, "No."

Which would have been _fine,_ but for the fact—

"So it's just _Morgan's_ head you want on a pike?" Natasha demands; Loki has no response. She huffs a humorless laugh and rolls her eyes. "Don't pretend you fucking _care_, Loki. Don't pretend you're doing this for _me._ You want Morgan because you don't like the idea that someone like _him_ could fool even _you—_"

"Amora has more use to me _alive_. Morgan—"

"_Wasn't_ the brains behind the operation. He was just the _executioner_. If you want someone to crucify, go track _Amora_ down and—"

There's more she would want to say, but her phone chooses that moment to ring. She doesn't have to check it to know who it is and she groans, running both hands through her hair almost viciously and squeezing her eyes shut—pleading with whatever higher power would listen to grant her just a sliver of patience to complete the day.

"Forget it," she exhales angrily, shaking her head. "Forget it."

She drops her hands and turns away again to head for the elevator.

"Where are you going?" Loki demands.

She doesn't stop until she's at the elevator, punching the button for the lobby. She calls over her shoulder, "What? You think Fury discharged me out of the kindness of his _heart_?"

"_Fury?" _When she doesn't reply, he snaps, "Natasha!"

With a scowl, she turns to face him, explaining with more patience than she felt, "Yes. He wants my cooperation with a … _project_ S.H.I.E.L.D. is working on."

Loki's expression is grim, flecked with incredulity. The space between them suddenly appears as a chasm but Natasha tries not to linger on why the idea seems to leave her with an empty pit in her stomach.

"You're helping _S.H.I.E.L.D_., now," Loki deadpans.

She holds his gaze, challenging, and nods slowly. "I am."

He scowls. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression you _despised_ Fury."

Brows high on her forehead and lips pursed, she holds her arms wide and says, "Tell me, then. What should I do? Should I sit here and mope? Should I be _angry_?" She paces back to him, gesturing with her hands as she speaks. When she's standing directly in front of him, she sighs—expression beseeching. "Or should I _swallow_ my pride and _do_ something?"

Stillness falls over Loki then; his lips press to a firm line and his expression carefully shutters away wayward emotion.

"I can't do this anymore, Loki," she says quietly—honestly. "I can't take the chance that _next_ time—the person that gets hurt is someone I _care_ about. Because of _me,_ hundreds are _dead._ That's _all_ on me. There's no shrugging it off and moving on."

The muscles along his jaw tighten and for a moment a silent part of her _begs_ for a solution—begs for that clever mind of his to find her an out—and she thinks she might actually take up his offer to abandon responsibility and abandon her home to find her place in the vastness of space. Somewhere far, far away.

Quietly, he replies, "You place blame where it ought not be placed. It was _Horgan_, not—"

She laughs nastily, averting her eyes as her expression twists in disgust. "It was _Horgan_, and Octavius and _Morgan_ and—" Her eyes cut to him, heavy with newly realized responsibility. "How many more? How many more are going to come after me? How many innocent people am I going to allow to get _hurt_ because psychopaths out there have a grudge against me?"

This, at last, seems to extinguish their anger, understanding slotting into place in its stead. Loki's expression seems more alive than she has ever seen it, despite the solemn calm that falls over them. His eyes are bright and the muscles under his brow and around his eyes and mouth and jaw all seem to flex, struggling to remain neutral and largely failing. She thinks that if she looked into a mirror, her own expression would be similarly conflicted.

Finally, Loki reaches out, tucking a knuckle under her chin as if to ensure her eyes remain fixed on his. Then, "You cannot carry the weight of the dead," he murmurs. "It will _crush_ you."

Natasha snorts softly but her lips can't manage a smirk. This time, their differences feel too great to overcome with jest and flirtatious smirks. There is a severity in this moment that had been absent their last confrontation, when the fate of the world had been a weight shared between a group of unlikely heroes and the vengeful God who had instigated the war in the first place.

"Maybe Natasha Stark," Natasha concedes quietly. "But I'm also Iron Woman."

Loki frowns, shaking his head, "I only mean that—"

She sighs, tugging her face away and looking away. "Yeah, I _know_ what you _mean _and _don't."_ She doesn't want comfort. She knows what she has to do._ "_Iron Woman has a responsibility to the people. I have to stop pretending I have a choice. And whether I approve of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s methods or not—our cause is the same. These criminals cannot be allowed to roam freely."

"And what of _your_ freedom?"

Natasha sniffs quietly, expression slack.

She allows her silence to be answer enough.

* * *

When the elevator doors open, he is not expecting to find Natasha and Loki deep in discussion when he enters the penthouse. There are no words between them, yet the tension is nearly palpable and it isn't until he clears his throat politely to call attention to his presence that Natasha tears her eyes away from Loki to face him.

"Rhodey?"

James looks between Loki and Natasha uncertainly—before schooling his unease and summoning a smirk as he strides confidently into the room. "Just _once_ I'd like to get a call that doesn't leave me fraught with worry that my foolish best friend has gotten herself _killed._ Again."

This seems to startle a laugh from Natasha and it disturbs James that the sound falls past her lips like it's unnatural. There is disbelief in her eyes as she looks him over and it's matched in her grin, which seems to waver on her mouth, and then she's crossing the room to meet him. James pulls her into a hug the moment she is within reach, ruffling a hand through her hair in a familiar gesture.

His cheek pressed protectively to her temple, he murmurs, lips hovering just above her ear, "You're _okay_, right?"

She nods against his shoulder and begins to pull away. Her smile looks strained but James chooses not to comment.

Arching a brow, he smirks, shaking his head, "I _told_ you that Morgan was a shit. _Told_ you not to trust him."

Natasha huffs a laugh, rolling her eyes. "I know."

Playfully, James reaches out to rap his knuckles against her forehead. "You don't _listen_."

"I _try."_

He snorts, tone and expression sobering, "Not hard _enough_."

For someone who had forsaken ties to the military, it astounded him that she could attract even more trouble than before.

Unbidden, James finds his eyes wandering past Natasha to meet Loki's—sees that the God is still very much present, watching them in silence, expression unreadable. Their eyes locked, James' tempered fury at the revelation of Loki's identity seems to be reawakening in light of events—because James had _warned_ Natasha long ago about Morgan, just as he'd warned her against _Loki_ when the truth had been made known to him.

His expression must match his darkening thoughts because Natasha reaches out abruptly, bumping her fist to his chest to draw his attention—and when James blinks down at her, then back up at Loki, the Trickster is gone.

Shaking his head, he looks down to Natasha with a frown; settling a hand on her shoulder, he says, "Pepper told me what happened." Natasha's frown is response enough and James' grip tightens a fraction. He adds, insistently, "I'm _glad_ she did."

Natasha rolls her eyes with a huff—and James is surprised to hear genuine annoyance instead of the fond exasperation Natasha and Pepper usually reserve for each other. "She only calls you when she doesn't get her way."

Frowning, James says carefully, "Pepper _always_ gets her way."

"One way or another." Natasha nods, curiously making a point to look _everywhere_ but at him. James eyes narrow suspiciously and she mutters, "But not this time."

"What do you mean?"

She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then _doesn't—_tongue tracing over a molar as if in fascination. Her eyes seem to be fixed on something only _she _seems to be able to see, and after a long moment, she finally swallows and says, "I'm thinking about taking back the company."

Startled, James frowns, immediately concerned. "What about Pepper?"

She shakes her head, jaw set with determination, gaze yet averted. "It's too dangerous. She has Happy now. They deserve to be able to live their lives without the fear of my crimes coming back to haunt them."

"_What_ crimes?" James balks, incredulous. "Natasha—you haven't done anything _wrong._ You're _helping_ people. Pepper understands that. As does Happy."

Shaking her head again, Natasha steps back, forcing him to drop his hand from her shoulder. "It doesn't matter. I can't … " She takes a breath, a pained expression falling over her face. "If _anything_ ever happened to them, I would _never_ forgive myself."

James can understand concern for their friends, but he knows there is always a thousand other things that Natasha will allow to remain unsaid and if _this _is the only excuse she's willing to give voice—there is cause for concern when Natasha is willing to admit to insecurity and fear of loss when she's only ever made a point of playing the part of heartless and arrogant billionaire.

"Pepper has put her _life_ into the company," James argues, adopting the tone her reserves for when Natasha is behaving like a child. "She won't just hand it over. Especially not for some martyrdom bullshit."

Uncharacteristically, Natasha allows the comment to slide, barely reacting to it at all. He thinks he catches a flash of anger—but it's replaced quickly with determination.

James sighs, knowing from experience it's useless to try and reason with Natasha when it's apparent she's made up her mind, but he's willing to try, anyway. "Look, you think I don't understand?" He demands, allowing frustration from his own experience to color his tone. "It's fucking terrifying knowing that the bastards we've put away could come back to try and hurt the ones we love—but that's a price we pay—"

"That's not a price _I'm_ willing to pay," Natasha snaps loudly, cutting her eyes to him, her expression and her body suddenly _alive_.

Silenced by his surprise, James studies her anew—carefully picking through her façade to try and piece together what might be lying on the other side.

Natasha is never vulnerable—not in the way _normal_ people are vulnerable. Even in the aftermath of her capture, she had only displayed a silent resolve that had seemed to carry her through the following years, despite the insanity that has become of her life since the birth of Iron Woman. He doesn't see vulnerability in her now—but there is an uncertainty in her eyes that takes him a while to discern.

Resisting the urge to pull her into another hug, he murmurs, "This really shook you up, huh?"

Natasha blinks rapidly—a familiar tell whenever she's thinking about trying to get away with a lie she's not entirely willing to give voice.

Before she has a chance to speak, James frowns and asks, "What is it that's bothering you the most? Is it Morgan? Or is it what happened with Horgan at the IronWorks?"

Natasha drops her eyes and seems to struggle with herself—as if resisting the urge to blurt out her problems like normal. Eventually, she mutters with a scowl, "… I could have _saved_ them. If I had been in my right of mind—if Morgan hadn't—" She clamps her teeth over her words and shakes her head angrily. "I could have done something to _save_ those people."

"How?" James ducks his head to catch her eyes. "You couldn't have known Horgan would attack. You can't blame yourself for what Morgan did to you."

She looks up at him, something heavy and dark flickering behind her eyes. "I should have _known, _Rhodey."

"How? _How _could you have—"

James cuts himself off abruptly because—_it doesn't matter._ He has known Natasha longest of all, and even if he has never spent his days glued to her side like Pepper, he still knows her better than most. James doesn't have the sort of mind to pinpoint Natasha's internal wounds and heal them with words as Pepper does—nor does he care to. Pepper _pries_ until she finds the problem and she forces Natasha to face it—to _deal._ James won't do that because he's a soldier—he understands that there are some things best left untouched.

Sometimes, companionship is enough.

Sometimes being a _friend_ and offering reprieve from dark thoughts is _enough_.

He takes a breath, shaking his head, and forces a smile to his lips. "Do you wanna get a drink?"

Surprised, Natasha looks up at him incredulously. " … Uh—it's the middle of the morning?"

He rolls his eyes. "Tonight. I meant _tonight._ I have some things to take care of, but we should go out tonight. Get some drinks. Have some _fun._ You remember what that _is,_ right?"

Natasha is still eyeing him strangely, as if she suddenly doubts whom she is speaking with. "Yeah … Sure. I won't be back 'till late, but—yeah. I guess that's … cool."

James grins. "It's a date, then."

* * *

When Natasha arrives at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters she is in a considerably more tolerable mood. She picks up Parker on the way and is grateful that he's not so familiar with her that he notices the absence of Pepper or Happy. Barton and Coulson are waiting for her at lobby; Coulson in his usual suit, hands tucked at his lower back, and Barton beside him, arms crossed and dressed as if recently arrived from a mission.

Arching a brow, she says, "I wasn't expecting such a warm reception."

"Widow would be here. But she got called away on a mission," Barton says with a casual shrug. "What's with the kid?"

Beside her, Parker seems to stiffen. Natasha mimics Barton's shrug. "He's with me. He's my assistant."

"He doesn't have clearance," Coulson explains patiently.

Natasha looks to him calmly. "Then get him some."

"Do I know you?" Barton asks with a frown, his attention never straying from Parker's face.

Nervously, Parker seems to shift closer to her side. "I—uh …"

"His school was the one that got trashed by the Sandman," Natasha explains, dropping an arm around the boy's shoulder in hopes it will settle his nerves. Parker jolts at the unexpected touch, but then relaxes by a fraction, which she rewards with a quick smile.

"Oh. Right. I remember your face now," Barton says, recognition dawning.

"Uh … " Parker looks between her and Barton uncertainly.

Gesturing towards Barton, Natasha says, "Parker, this is Agent—"

"Hawkeye. Just Hawkeye," Barton corrects her immediately.

Natasha rolls her eyes and smirks. "Alright, this is _Hawkeye._ And the grumpy guy to his right is Agent Coulson."

Coulson is still frowning sternly. "Stark, I can't get him clearance—"

Natasha summons a reassuring grin, squeezing Parker's shoulders as she says, "Kid's brilliant. Trust me. I can use him."

Unconvinced, Coulson looks between her and Parker before settling his gaze on Barton; he receives only an unsympathetic shrug in response. With an exasperated sigh, Coulson draws his phone and shoots her a final frown before walking away, grunting, "I'll see what I can do."

She watches Coulson walk some distance away as he makes his call, dropping her arm from Parker's shoulder. Then, looking to Barton, she frowns, absent playfulness, and asks, "So who am I meeting today?"

Otherwise unbothered by the addition to the group, Barton takes a moment to think, brows drawn in thought, before he says, "You'll be working with Reed Richards from the Fantastic Four. Heard of him?"

She blinks in genuine surprise. "Heard of Reed Richards? Yes. And of the Fantastic Four." She begins drawing upon at all that her mind has ever absorbed on the man and his associates. After a second, she glances to Parker and holds his gaze until he startles and then nods in understanding. As he scrambles to retrieve the tablet from his satchel, Natasha says to Barton, "Didn't realize they were into the crime-fighting business."

Barton shrugs—as if he really could not be _bothered_ to know about any of this—and replies, "They're not. The Fantastic Four operate more like—_explorers._"

Natasha frowns. "How are they connected with _S.H.I.E.L.D_.?"

Barton's eyes flick to Parker. "Classified." He looks to her with a smirk. "Don't worry, though. Richards is volunteering his aid as a contractor, like yourself. S.H.I.E.L.D. is only providing the funding on this one."

"I don't need S.H.I.E.L.D.'s money."

"_No_—but we can open doors you'd otherwise find yourself hard-pressed to access," Coulson says as he returns. Natasha hadn't realized he must have left completely until he presents Parker with his very own badge. Parker takes the badge carefully and Coulson turns a frown to Barton. "Change of plans. Mr. Richards sends his apologies and has asked us to meet with him at the Baxter Building."

Barton rolls his eyes but he doesn't seem surprised, only annoyed. "Good grief."

It occurs to her then how out of place Barton's presence is, given that the man is usually reserved for higher priority missions. Bemused, she frowns and says, "No offense, Barton—"

This startles an amused snort out of Barton. He grins at her, incredulously, "Did I hear you right_?"_

She ignores him and continues, "—but why are _you_ coming along?" Rather than answering immediately, Barton's grin disappears and he glances to Coulson as if checking with the other man for permission to speak. Understanding follows quickly and Natasha feels her expression go slack—deadpans, "Fury. He doesn't trust me."

"Actually," Barton smirks wryly, holding Coulson's eyes for a moment longer before looking to her. "No. Fury seems to trust you _implicitly_ to get the job done. It's Agent Hill who has the issue."

Neither flattered by Fury's apparent trust nor offended by Hill's lack of it, Natasha merely snorts. Coulson motions for them to follow him and they start for the exit—have barely stepped out onto the street when Coulson's phone is ringing again.

He doesn't check the ID, answering promptly. "Coulson. Yes. She—" Natasha watches Coulson's expression as it settles into a frown of irritation. He seems unable to get in a word edgewise and Natasha rapidly loses interest, turning to Parker expectantly.

He holds out his tablet as if expecting her to accept it and when she doesn't he frowns, bemused, before shuffling closer to speak quietly. "Ah—Reed Richards: child prodigy with an aptitude in mathematics, physics, and mechanics. He was enrolled in college courses when he was fourteen. He graduated from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, California Institute of Technology, Harvard University, Columbia University and the Empire State University—all by the age of twenty. He served some time in the military, which is where he became acquainted with a Nick Fury—who I'm guessing is the same Fury you mentioned _before_ … ?"

Natasha nods, sharing with him a pleased smile. "Very good, Parker. You do quick work."

Flushing adorably, Parker smiles, tucking the tablet back into his satchel. "Well—_JARVIS_ did most of the work..."

"I will see," Coulson is saying into his phone, waving to get her attention and then gesturing towards to a matte black Acura MDX with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo painted along its flanks. Natasha scrunches her nose in distaste at the reinforced vehicle and shares a look with Parker that the boy doesn't know how to decipher. When she doesn't move, Coulson nudges her towards the vehicle, still speaking into his phone, "Yes. No, I'm sure it won't be a problem. Yes. See you then, Mr. Richards."

With a look of disgust, Natasha approaches the crossover SUV reluctantly. Bemused, Parker doesn't seem to understand her displeasure but he reaches out to open the door for her helpfully.

Behind her, Barton grunts, "What's up?"

Coulson sighs and Natasha glances over her shoulder, curious. Speaking to her, Coulson explains, "He wanted to know if there was any chance you could bring … Iron Woman."

Making no move to enter the vehicle first, Natasha glances to Parker and nods—both in command and in answer. To Coulson, she says, "I can call Pepper and have a suit delivered to the Baxter Building. Did he say why? It would help if I knew which suit to send."

Parker is already making the call, quietly watching them while he waits for the other line. Coulson frowns, looking as if he were replaying the conversation with Richards in his head and is yet unable to make sense of it. "He started talking about tensile density and something about non-collapsibility—but then he changed his mind. Said he'd take care of it once he got a look at it."

Natasha's eyes narrow sharply, suspicious. "… Okay. _No_. He's not touching my armor." To Parker, she instructs, "Have her deliver the S.A., Mark II to the Baxter Building."

Parker nods quietly and Coulson blinks, surprised. "You know what he's looking for?"

She shrugs, her eyes on Parker. "It sounds like he's looking for something to take into space."

Barton snorts, incredulous. "You got all that from 'tensile density' and 'non-collapsibility'?"

Natasha looks to him with a self-satisfied smirk. "Well, like you said: The Fantastic Four are explorers, aren't they? I just put two-and-two together."

* * *

The Baxter Building is a three-towered building linked at their base, the middle tower standing at thirty-five stories. The Fantastic Four only occupy the top five floors as tenants, yet the building is still uniquely their own despite this. The lobby proves difficult to navigate through, crowded heavily with people eager to catch a glimpse of the Fantastic Four. Pushing through the crowd to the elevator bank exhausts nearly all of Natasha's patience—her tolerance again tested when they reach the elevator reserved for the Fantastic Four and are forced to wait for the elevator to be sent down to them. She has to keep herself facing the elevator, Parker standing wearily at her side as if to block her from view—for which she rewards him with another smile that he returns tenfold.

On the ride up, the elevator is stalled mid-shaft when the elevator's on-board AI determined hidden scanners had identified questionable material upon them, prompting Coulson to call Richards and explain that he and Barton were not armed and Parker to shift nervously beside her.

"It's probably my reactor," Natasha mutters; unnecessarily, since the AI merely scolds Coulson and Barton before allowing them to resume their trip to the 33rd Floor.

Richards is waiting for them by the elevator the moment they arrive, dressed in a form-fitting blue one-piece suit emblazoned with a 4 over his left breast. Natasha has to bite her cheek to refrain from cracking a joke when the man's eyes find hers and a wide grin stretches across his lips.

"Natasha Stark!" Richards exclaims with excitement, extending a hand. "What a pleasure it is to finally meet you in person!"

Stepping forward, Natasha reaches out to shake the man's hand and smiles. "Same, Mr. _Fantastic."_

Richards laughs, shaking his head. "_Please_, Reed is fine; Mr. Fantastic is a public persona. I'm sure you understand. You've done the same."

It's an odd observation but one that makes it immediately apparent that the man is not particularly adept at handling diplomacy. He's observant and blunt, which is something Natasha can appreciate—but also explains why the man makes his profits from his patents rather than a company of his own. Nevertheless, she maintains her Stark charm and replies easily, "Of course. If Iron Woman wasn't such an over-the-top character people would fear what she might stand for."

He nods in agreement, gesturing for them to follow as he leads them away from the elevator into a corridor. "Unfortunately for _some_ of us," he continues conversationally. "We can't simply slip out of costume and resume our normal life."

Natasha matches pace with him as she considers his words—recalls the image of Benjamin Grimm and the present state of his body. She blinks, marveling at the man's openness. "So for the sake of one, all of you have assumed such outlandish names and costumes. That's very commendable."

"Well, we're a family. That's what family does," a woman's voice replies for Richards, drawing their attention behind them where Sue Richards had appeared, wearing a suit nearly identical to that of her husband's.

Natasha frowns, murmuring, "Right."

Beside her, Richards smiles. "Fixed?"

Extending an arm, Sue smiles at her husband as her forearm rapidly vanishes. "Fixed." Richards nods appreciatively and she adds, "By the way, Johnny and I will be back a little later. Do you need anything from the—"

Richards is already turning away, shaking his head as he calls over his shoulder, "No, no. We have everything we need."

Sue rolls her eyes and smiles indulgently as she turns to leave. "Okay, then. Have fun."

Natasha follows Richards into an open lab area, Parker and the two agents tracking behind them in silence. As Richards navigates them through the lab, he can't seem to help pointing out each unfinished project as they pass it, taking the opportunity to explain its uses and purpose. Natasha listens indulgently, genuinely fascinated and surprisingly inclined to allow Richards to show off. She can admit to herself that perhaps her pride had smarted at learning of the man's accomplishments from a young age. Growing up, _she_ had been the prodigy—her intelligence surpassing even her father's—and it had always been her one redeeming quality amid all the shitty personality traits that she'd inherited from her parents. Acknowledging Richards as an equal was somehow harder than accepting Bruce had been—but that probably had more to do with the stupid leotard and the fact that pissing _this_ man off wouldn't turn him into a huge green rage monster.

Eventually, Richards leads them to a massive door unit featuring an impressive array of locks. Natasha studies the door appreciatively, asking, "So, what are we looking at?"

"Well, you and _I," _Richard chuckles as if he'd made a joke. "Don't see how much help a couple of suits will be," Reed adds with a grin, as if completely acknowledging Parker and the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents was somehow _below_ him.

She snorts, glancing over her shoulder to leer at the men. "Oh, they have their uses."

Barton glares and Coulson merely rolls his eyes. Parker is too fascinated by the equipment to pay her any mind, which is probably for the best.

"That's right!" Richards exclaims suddenly. "Your suit arrived a little before you. I've taken the liberty of—"

Natasha's head whips back around to Richards, eyes narrowed sharply. "You got past the security protocols," she states—doesn't ask. She intones, "Impressive."

"Ah—yes. Apologies," Richards smiles, somehow completely unapologetic. "It was a rather elegant design. It took me quite a bit of time to resolve." He turns, glancing behind him. Natasha follows his eyes and spots her suit immediately, standing like a sentinel in the middle of Richards' many experiments.

"Not _that_ long, I see," Natasha grunts bitterly. Immediately, she starts for her suit, scowling as she approaches and sees the light damage incurred to the plates protecting the chest and forearms. The model showcased a sleek dark-gray colored armor with gold detail, featuring a circular chest piece to sit over the arc-reactor and mounted with heavy shoulder thrusters.

"So what am I going to be looking at?" Natasha mutters distractedly, mood effectively soured by the state of her suit and the idea of Richards fiddling with _anything _that belonged to her. She forces herself to temper her irritation, gliding her hands carefully over her suit as she inspects it for further damage. "I was under the impression we would be looking into methods of _containment_."

"We are," Richards replies pleasantly, completely oblivious to her annoyance. "Or, rather—I will be getting to that. What do you know of the Silver Surfer?"

Frowning, Natasha glancing over her shoulder, shrugging. "Not … much at all. I might have heard something about it in the _news_, but …"

Richards nods as if had expected as much and says, "Seven years ago, a silver phenomenon entered the Earth's atmosphere, radiating massive levels of cosmic energy and triggering gigantic molecular fluctuations."

Reluctantly, Natasha turns away from her suit. Crossing her arms, she stands almost protectively between Richards and her suit. "Yeah. Okay. That sounds familiar. I think I remember that."

"We learned from the Silver Surfer of another being," Richards continues, "Galactus: a massive cosmic entity that sustained itself on the energy it gathered from life-bearing planets. A devourer of worlds." Richards pauses for a moment to allow his words to sink in and Natasha's eyes find Coulson's in query. Barton looks to the other agent as well but Coulson remains completely stoic. Richards says, "These extraterrestrial beings—unchecked, could destroy our world in the blink of an eye."

Scowling, Natasha words are directed to Coulson as she says, "S.H.I.E.L.D. never _mentioned_ past encounters with creatures out of this world. I was under the impression that the Destroyer and the Chitauri had been our first encounters."

When Coulson refrains from answering, Natasha's glare shifts to Barton—but the man merely shrugs, clearly at a loss, as well.

"I know your types are more of the 'attack first' mentality," Richards says, ignoring the comment meant for the agent. "But I've always been of the opinion that a good defense is the best offense. Follow me."

With a final scowl in Coulson's direction, Natasha follows Richards back towards the massive door and waits impatiently as he disengages the security. The door groans open to reveal a chamber containing a huge and radically shaped device, easily the height of the room. From a normal viewer's perspective, the device seemed to consist of all manner of odd angles and illogical protrusions—and only Natasha's trained eye allowed her to make some sense of what she was looking at, but even _then_, she still could not determine its purpose.

Grinning at her confusion, Richards takes position before his invention, stating proudly, "I've designed _this_ as a dimensional entrance into sub-space."

Natasha stares up at device, deadpanning, " … You're joking."

"I am not."

Natasha drops her eyes to meet Richards', skeptical, "Does it _work_?"

Richards' grin is replaced by a frustrated frown. "Thus far, I've only been able to send in probes to conduct my research. I have not yet developed a suit that would be able to withstand what may lie on the other side. Most of my funding went into creation of this portal and the rest of my time has been spent analyzing all that this Zone has to offer."

Natasha nods, finding her eyes drawn back to the incredible device. "That's why you need Iron Woman."

"Correct. Unfortunately, while I was able to gain access into the suit's computer, I was not able to make much sense of it."

Unable to resist a self-satisfied smirk, Natasha says, "I'd be more worried if you _could."_ Looking to Richards and seeing his confusion, she explains. "The program's language is known only between myself and my AI."

Richards blinks. "Fascinating."

She grins, momentarily appeased by his awe. She nudges her chin towards the entrance-shaped section of the device, asking, "So what's on the other side?"

Excitement brightens Richards' eyes and he urges her closer as he summons a monitor from a side-panel on the device. She steps up beside him as he explains, "I call it the Negative Zone. It's an alien universe, composed entirely of anti-matter."

"Anti-matter?" Barton grunts behind them, reminding both Natasha and Richards of the others' presence with a start.

Richards offers Barton an almost indulgent smile as he replies, "Matter composed of particles that are counterparts of the particles composing positive matter."

Barton's expression is impressively blank. He blinks. " … What?"

Sharing a grin with Richards, Natasha clarifies, "_Basically_—should _positive_ matter come into contact with an equal amount of _anti_-matter, they would negate one another and become converted into energy." When Barton continues to stare vacantly, she rolls her eyes and says, "Think—_boom."_

Barton nods, throwing her a look that reads: '_Why didn't you just say _that?'

"So you understand my concern," Richards says as he turns to her. "I can't risk entering the Negative Zone without making absolutely certain I wouldn't be triggering any … _unwanted_ reactions." He turns their attentions to the monitor displaying various readings returned from the 'Negative Zone' via probe. "Anyone or anything that moves from our universe into this one would be required to reverse its polarity on a _molecular_ level."

Natasha hums in thought, murmuring, "Or be instantly annihilated."

"Another matter of interest—at least, for you, I'd think," Richards adds, hands flashing over the monitor and summoning a second display of data and a recording comprised of compressed wavelengths featuring a strange abnormality. "This universe is mature far beyond our own. It has already begun to contract, and from my observations, this has created a concentration of matter of _incredible_ density."

"A black hole," Natasha says as she recognizes at last what it is she's seeing. Looking up to Richards, she frowns. "So in _theory, _you could—"

"Theory proven _fact_ in the case of this particular singularity."

"How?" Natasha straightens in interest—Richards had earned her total attention. "You're saying it would be possible to use it to traverse to a different _universe_?"

"Yes," Richards nods, "However, trying to send a _person_ through it would be fatal—assuming we could safely enter the Negative Zone in the first place." He motions back to the monitor and she looks to see him pull up another analysis on the singularity. Richards explains, "Entering the black hole alone would be nearly impossible—the sheer amount of mass already being pulled into the singularity in the form of gas, rock and debris has destroyed more than a few dozen of my probes. The gravity is another factor—exponentially increasing as one approaches the singularity. Finally, _everything_ that is pulled into the singularity is drawn through a single point at speeds faster than light."

Behind them, Coulson blurts, "What?"

Natasha glances back to see the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents sharing equally puzzled looks. Beside them, Parker appears _less_ so—though she is not surprised that he would be able to follow along with something as simple as _black holes._

Rather than offering another explanation, Natasha smiles at her assistant. "Parker?"

Parker jumps, startled to be called upon—but he seems to understand her intentions quickly enough. Clearing his throat, he glances to the two agents, murmuring, "Ah—try to imagine going through an … _avalanche_, an _earthquake_ and a _flood_. Simultaneously. All of them at—literally—_astronomical_ levels."

"Precisely," Richards says, blinking back at Parker in surprise then looking to Natasha, intrigued.

Natasha grins, shaking her head in amusement. "You could have just 'no'," she tells him. "No living being would survive _entering_, let alone utilizing the singularity for travel."

Richards laughs. "Well, it's not _technically_ beyond the realm of possibility."

Natasha shrugs, rolling her eyes. "Sure. But _nothing_ is _technically_ beyond the realm of possibility." Evidently pleased, Richards response is only a smile. Resisting the urge to further prove that Richards wasn't the _only_ genius in the room, she sobers and says, "You had me bring the suit, so I'm assuming you've thought of a way to enter this Zone?"

He nods, shutting down the monitor. "Correct," he says, leading them back out of the room and towards her suit. He sighs, almost wistfully, "I would have liked to examine the armor myself, but it … seemed to react _negatively_ to the idea."

He gestures towards the equipment set up in a rig around the suit and only then does Natasha notice that most of the equipment looks completely fried. She smirks, completely unapologetic as she eyes her suit with pride. "_Sorry_ about that. You must have triggered the EMP."

"I see that." Richards snorts. "Fortunately, it seemed to contain itself just to this area."

"Yeah," Natasha says, grin widening. Reaching out, she claps a hand to his shoulder. "I'll pay for the damage. Don't worry."

"Much appreciated," Richards smiles appreciatively.

She grins again, dropping her hand and stepping up to her suit. "This is the latest model in my Space Armor edition. The Mark II. The suit's matrix was formed to be non-collapsible, making it ideal for deep space." Rapping her knuckles against the chest piece, she explains, "It's powered primarily via fusion reactor, supplemented by solar power converters. Systems are controlled through a cybernetic interface and is designed for extended usage beyond the atmosphere—fitted with life support capable of sustaining itself for weeks without maintenance, recharging or restocking of resources." Lowering to a crouch, Natasha releases a hatch along the left calf. "It's also fitted with anaerobic jets for propulsion in space and a special compression gel to protect me from G-forces."

Richards releases a low whistle. "This is _very_ impressive."

Natasha grins up at him cheekily. "_I_ think so."

Behind Richards, Barton snorts, muttering, "Nerds and their toys."

Richards ignores him, approaching the suit in awe. "This is good. _Very_ good. Better than I had hoped." He shares a grin with her, chuckling. "You really _do_ live up to expectations, Ms. Stark."

"Natasha is fine," she replies. "And I hope I do _better_ than just 'live up to' them."

Richards laughs. "I'm certain you will. Shall we get to work, then?"

She hadn't anticipated to _enjoy _her work for S.H.I.E.L.D., but the sudden surge of excitement she felt and saw reflected in Richards had her itching to get to work. "I have some specs on the layout of the—"

"_Wonderful!_ That—"

"Hold on," Coulson calls out quickly before Natasha and Richards can escape in their shared project. "I think I might have missed something. _What_ exactly is the plan?"

Natasha catches Richards' eyes and they share a look that is a hair's breadth away from exasperation. Patiently, Natasha looks to Coulson and says, "We're building a prison, _remember_?"

"But first we need to ensure that the Negative Zone is traversable," Richards adds, matter-of-factly.

Barton frowns. "Didn't you just say you could be _annihilated_ by entering into that Zone?"

Natasha shrugs, jabbing a thumb towards her suit. "Sure. But the Iron—"

"_Stark,"_ Barton scowls. "Are you _insane?_ You're _not_ going in there!"

"Of course I'm _not_, idiot," Natasha rolls her eyes and shares another look with Richards before elaborating. "The _suit_ is. Once on the other side, JARVIS will analyze the space and we can adjust calculations to compensate for the additional matter presented if I _were_ within the suit."

Barton's flare of anger deflates, but his frown persists. "Oh."

She smirks. "But I'm flattered by your concern."

" … You're building a prison?" Parker asks quietly, bemused.

Natasha starts, "Oh! Sorry." Waving the boy over, she turns to grin at Richards. "Reed, let me introduce to you Peter Parker, my personal assistant and quite _brilliant_ protégé."

Flushing at the compliment, Parker only smiles, ducking his head in embarrassment.

Richards frowns, glancing between her and the boy. "Parker? He wouldn't happen to be related to—"

Her grin widens. "One and the same."

Richards' eyes widen as he turns back to Parker. "Incredible. Young man, I was a _great_ admirer of your father's work."

"Parker will be present in a purely observational capacity," Natasha explains, dropping a supportive hand on the boy's shoulder when he is unable to form a response to Richards' praise. Proudly, she adds, "He's a good hand to have around the lab."

Extending his hand to Parker, Richards smiles pleasantly. "It would be my pleasure to have you here, Mr. Parker."

Nervously, Parker accepts the hand and Natasha nods to him. "As to your question—yes. We're building a prison. As you may have noticed, there has been a surplus of super-powered criminal activity."

"I began looking into a form of containment seven years ago," Richards explains. "After our encounter with the Silver Surfer and Galactus."

Natasha hums in acknowledgement, admitting, "I've been working on the designs for a prison to contain beings of … _God-like_ abilities."

This seems to surprise Barton. "Hold on—you've been working on this since … ?"

She meets his eyes and nods. "Since the invasion last year. Yes."

He frowns, suspicious. "But I thought you _rejected_ the idea of creating a prison to—"

"I never rejected such ideas. I merely suggested we let Asgard hold onto Loki while I worked on a prison _capable_ of containing a God."

Barton scowls. "But Loki came _back_."

Natasha rolls her eyes dismissively. "Well, obviously I hadn't anticipated for Asgard to exile their prisoner to _Earth."_

Coulson's eyes are a silent weight upon her but she doesn't acknowledge it. Still quite confused, Barton grunts, "So you've designed a prison. One that could contain someone like _Loki?"_

She grins, directing her answer to Richards.

"I've designed _four_ prisons."

* * *

**End Notes: **This fucking chapter actually had _more._ I had to cut it down because shit was just getting too damn long. Seriously. This is growing to be a problem. Chapters are just getting longer and longer. That's not good. We're not even to the juicy bits. I'm going to end up screwing myself over, I know it.

Anyhoo, what was cut will be in the next chapter, so don't worry. (Although, there are actually a LOT of scenes that keep getting cut and postponed because they're just not the right fit and they're slowly accumulating in their own document, she's begging to be posted.)

I've just got to say, this plot is exhausting to keep in order. There are so many little things going on that connect everything together in the end. It hurts my brain sometimes.

I'm really sorry for my crappy proofing. This chapter was just ... guh. I'm not really happy with it but I've battled with it for too long and rewritten it too many times. This is as close as I'm going to get, I think. Please let me know what you think and hopefully you'll be patient with me and stick around for the next chapter!


	12. Somebody Make a Move

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Pepper.

* * *

Chapter Eleven:

_Somebody Make a Move_

It feels like he stands for hours just outside the open door to Natasha's office. Indecision roots him and worry gnaws in his gut—and in the back of his mind, a hulking shadow of repressed emotion.

His friendship with Natasha has been easy—insofar as he was concerned, given how unpracticed he was with the very _idea_ of friendship. It's challenging and often an adventure, but it's never been _hard._ Falling into a friendship with her had been like slipping into a well-oiled routine—brimmed with a sense of years between them that were merely months. For all that Natasha guarded herself, she was—at the same time—remarkably open. She spoke freely and without regard to propriety and her overabundance of pride in her work made it so that Bruce always knew what was going on in her life, as she could never resist bragging.

But in all that he had learned, nothing had prepared him for _this._

There didn't seem to be a transition period. Normal people mourned or grieved—they were _angry _and they were _hurt_—but this didn't appear to apply with Natasha. Only days had passed since her release from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s care and Natasha had wasted no time before jumping into a new project—atop all the others she already sustained—with just as much enthusiasm as ever. She was working more than before, yet somehow she already looked better—_healthier._ The only indication that the incident with Morgan had affected her was in that she absolutely refused to talk about it. It wasn't that Bruce had expected her to seek comfort, but he also didn't know _what_ to expect in the _first_ place. This wasn't just about her _pride_; this was her _heart_. Morgan's betrayal had torn her from the only other blood relation she had _left_.

Yet, where Natasha would have sought reprisal for slights against her pride—in _this_ matter, she maintained silence.

Bruce had intended to give her time to heal—emotionally, physically—before he approached her with his concerns, but the more time he had to stew in thoughts of Extremis, the more anxious he grew.

"Something you want to say, Brucie?" Natasha startles him by acknowledging him before he's even decided whether or not to announce his presence. She's sitting behind her desk, carefully scanning paperwork under what looks like a long, narrow lamp; as she does this, her eyes flick to the screen of her laptop as if the ascertain the document has been uploaded correctly before she moves on to the next page.

"Ah—no—nothing, just …" He hasn't decided whether this is a topic to be brought under light sooner than later. What he'd only glimpsed on the Extremis documents had made him too sick to look into anything further on the project. It wasn't a matter of ethics—he was a scientist; he'd learned to look past that—but a combination of things that burrowed in a pit in his stomach, weighing heavily. For one thing, the data gathered on the project had proved that Extremis was _dangerously_ unstable. That Natasha was preparing a _suit_ for Extremis gave cause for concern because Bruce knew from _experience_ that to mess with Super Soldier enhancements was a cocktail for disaster. He would not wish his curse upon anyone. Certainly not a _friend._

But there was also a tinier part of him—and ugly, _darker_, part—that balked at the idea of Natasha and some relatively unknown woman accomplishing what _he_ could not. If they succeeded with Extremis, it would only further compound upon the misery of a curse that was Bruce's life. If Natasha—_brilliant_ Natasha!—could accomplish what he had not … then …

Maybe he _deserved_ his curse.

Maybe he _deserved_ the Hulk.

Before darker thoughts can be tethered to his mood, Natasha says, "If it was _nothing—_you wouldn't be standing in my office shuffling your feet like a schoolboy." Her tone is light because she hasn't looked up and caught the forlorn expression on Bruce's face. He doesn't yet have the strength to will it away. "What's up?"

Right to the point. Bruce huffs a self-deprecating laugh.

Maybe she really _was_ okay.

She certainly handled things better than _him._

Taking a deep breath, he imagines that the air filling his lungs could be courage and he steps into the office, resolved.

"I think you should tell me about Extremis."

Natasha's hand pauses with a page under the scanner and her eyes snap up to meet his, brow furrowed. "Were you in my _workshop_?"

There's no point in lying, or in making excuses; Bruce crosses the room and takes a seat in the modern armchair in front of her desk. He holds her eyes as he says, "I saw the files when Loki and I were debugging the Tower."

Releasing the page, Natasha sits back in her seat, a wry smirk twisting her lips. "Can magic be '_debugged'_?"

Bruce frowns. "Will it _work_?"

Natasha studies his face carefully before responding—and when she's found whatever she is looking for, she releases a heavy sigh and brings a hand to her face, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as her eyes squeeze shut. "I'm not … _sure_ yet. We don't even know if it's _safe_. It's still a work in progress."

"But you _think_ it'll work."

Dropping her hand, she gestures exasperatedly at the documents strewn on her table. "I mean—_hopefully_? I don't _know_ yet. It's not ready for human testing."

"No," Bruce agrees grimly. "It's not."

Settling her hands on her lap, Natasha frowns at him; the back of her chair sways quietly as she rocks against it. "… Is _that_ what you're worried about? You think I'd actually experiment with _myself_?"

Bruce regards her in total seriousness, leaning forward a fraction as he replies, "I don't know. Sometimes—sometimes I don't know _what_ you'd do."

Natasha's face is perfectly calm, her eyes holding his, totally unreadable. He waits. Waits for her to reply—to say: _Don't worry. Of course I won't._

She doesn't.

She watches him silently and Bruce …

Slowly, Bruce understands.

* * *

Natasha emerges from her office about an hour later. Bruce is at the computer station near the balcony windows which controls the secondary functions of the Tower and Iron Woman's landing pad. Though he doesn't understand much of the language the further he delves into the commands, he's determined to keep himself occupied from his thoughts when lingering on Natasha and Extremis only seems to bait the slumbering Hulk into a challenge for dominion. Natasha seems amused to see him fiddling with her computer, though she makes a point to narrow her eyes in playful warning as she catches a glimpse of the screen, clearly understanding the display better than him.

He watches as she slips into her overcoat, adjusting the collar in jerky motions. He can't remember what she'd been wearing earlier, but he recognizes the brand of suit to belong to a collection she reserved for the office at Stark Industries. Her heels of her ankle boots click as she crosses the room to him, smile in place.

"You're going in today?" He asks, removing his hands from the keyboard when she eyes them pointedly, brow arched and lips twisted in a half-grin.

"There's a board meeting," she replies with a shrug, reaching a hand to tap a quick command into the keyboard—the screen immediately closes out of every window and reverts back to its hibernating state.

"I thought Pepper usually handled that."

"I gave her the day off."

Bruce frowns, studying the easy smile on her face skeptically. "Can you _give_ your CEO the day off?"

Natasha shrugs again, chuckling quietly, "Well, I just did."

Somehow, Bruce expects it hadn't been so simple a thing. "Well, are you _sure_? I mean, you only just—"

Immediately, Natasha's smile drops. Her tone is still amicable, but something behind her eyes shutters completely, blanketing outward emotion. "It's fine."

Bruce nods but he's not sure whether to press her further—her reaction indication enough that there was something she was letting brew inside her, but Bruce had learned to allow Pepper and Loki to handle Natasha at such times (mostly because he was a bit of a coward as a friend and disfavored being the one to set Natasha off, however necessary it might be).

Natasha is checking the time on her phone and turning away to leave when it occurs to Bruce that he hasn't _seen_ the Trickster for the last couple of days. Where normally he'd be suspicious, he's more concerned that not having the other man around will prompt Natasha to regress into moodiness. He's done his best to stay out of it, but he has not been blind to the mounting tension between Natasha and Pepper. There was nothing more terrifying than two women in silent feud and Bruce could only count on Loki to diffuse the situation since, like Bruce, Happy felt safer sticking to the sidelines.

"Oh. Hey—" He calls out; Natasha stops and glances over her shoulder curiously. "Where's Loki?"

What _hadn't_ occurred to him was that this, too, would be the wrong thing to say.

Natasha's expression seems to darken without really shifting and her tone is hard when she says, "How should _I_ know?"

Bemused, Bruce frowns. "What do you mean?" It wasn't that long ago that the two had been giddily giggling over spilt coffee—yet by Natasha's tone alone it would seem that Loki and Pepper now shared company in Natasha's silent resentment. He can't help but blurt, "You don't _know_?"

Twisting her torso to face him without turning around completely, Natasha scowls and snaps, "I mean I don't _care_."

Bruce shakes his head, perplexed. "Natasha, if it wasn't for Loki, you'd still be under that curse."

She snorts, rolling her eyes skyward. "If it wasn't for Loki I wouldn't have _been_ under _any_ curse to begin with."

Startled, Bruce balks, "Wait—you _blame_ him?"

She stills, considering—and then she sniffs, turning away. "Of course not."

"Then—why … ?"

Spinning sharply to face him, Natasha snaps unexpectedly, "Where is this _coming_ from, Bruce? You guys fucking _hate_ each other. Why do _you_ care?"

"I—" Stunned, Bruce swallows his words.

Natasha glares—but the look doesn't seem directed at him. "Loki's better off wherever he is. You don't need to worry about _him_."

She leaves then and Bruce lets her. He waits until he hears the elevator depart before releasing a breath and relaxing.

His hammering heart slowly begins to return to a steady pace and the other presence in his mind retreats back into its corner begrudgingly. He has to push away at his guilt for riling his friend for the more pressing matter of containing the beast within him.

Sighing again, Bruce can't help but think that he really _must be _terrible at this 'friendship' business.

* * *

Guised from the All-Seeing gazes of the All-Father and the Gatekeeper, weeks pass.

Loki knows this only arbitrarily—the passage of time within this realm between spaces unknown to him—but his mind records the revolutions of an Earth-sized rock as it gravitates around its star. His magic shields him and his two prisoners from their proximity to the solar system around them, but it is only a small mercy when one has spent the last several days shackled to an asteroid, the other bound and muted at his feet. The defiance in Amora's glare yet remains, red lips pressed tightly together as if sewn, and in the distance Skurge's roars of rage are swallowed by the vacuum of space.

"I cannot imagine Karnilla would raise such a fool as one who would cross me," Loki murmurs idly as he circles about Amora like a predator. "But it was not Karnilla who guided your hand, was it, Enchantress?"

Silenced by his magic, Amora can offer no response but to scowl further, terrified and indignant at once.

"No," Loki answers for her. "It was not."

The matter of Amora's arrogance in challenging him was no longer cause for his anger. Of course, she would be repaid for her audacity and her interference—but her present fate was not due to her meddling.

While he had been content to spare Amora, leaving her with only a warning and her fear of him to satiate his desire for vengeance, Loki had not accounted for how the consequence of Amora's machinations would weigh upon Natasha's shoulders. The rift between them that had been healed over the course of the past year had been reopened in the wake of Morgan and Amora's schemes. He had felt it steadily grow in days as Natasha buried herself in work, threatening all that which he had worked for. For one as simple of mind as _Amora_ to have dealt such a blow to his operations through sheer _dumb_ _luck_ proved to Loki how precarious it was to rest so much of his success on Natasha's good faith in him.

Now, with Amora's actions, the camaraderie he had built with Natasha was _challenged_.

As his thoughts circle back to this knowledge, his anger returns and Amora's body convulses as his magic courses throughout her body in imitation of Thor's lightning.

The space debris they stand on holds just enough room for the two of them—and when they are joined by a new presence, it suddenly becomes too small. The Right Hand of the Titan is ever concealed beneath his shawl but Loki recognizes the man by his presence. Lowering his hand to his side, Loki spares Amora with vicious grin before looking to The Hand.

"What business brings you here?" Loki asks.

The Hand seems to regard Amora from behind the shadow of his hood before chuckling quietly and speaking. "I heard tell that our Vengeful Prince had caught himself a meddling Enchantress." The hood shifts and Loki feels eyes fall upon him. "I did not think the Asgardians a barbaric race to bring harm upon such an exquisite creature."

Loki looks to Amora—sees her scowling as her eyes dart between him and The Hand, tears dry upon her cheeks and eyes reddened by rage and pain. He considers the unblemished skin of her exposed arms and legs and face—and _smirks_. "I've not laid hands upon flesh."

"Damage done all the same," replies the Hand, though there is no disapproval in his tone.

Loki does not turn away from Amora as he says, "This was _not_ our arrangement."

"Amora did as commanded," replies the Hand. "Though it is true that she acted beyond instruction."

Scowling, Loki resists the urge to inflict yet more pain upon the Enchantress—until his anger has been spent—but he refrains if only because he does not know what purposes she may yet serve for the Titan and his pets. "I would not have her interfere with my plans," Loki says. "She yet remains under the Gatekeeper's vigilant gaze. If her actions arouse suspicion within Asgard—"

"_If_ such is to be the case, I trust that _you_ will be there to handle the matter," The Hand counters swiftly, steady tone concealing deeper thought. "Do not waste valued time with the Enchantress. Your work on Earth is yet unfinished."

Loki barely resists the urge to sneer. "Your concern is noted."

"It is not concern for _her_ that I hold—yet I would not have you lose sight of purpose," The Hand says in a way that implies warning. Amora hears it, too, and for a second her eyes reflect relief. Quietly, The Hand chuckles. "Have heart, my friend. Your time amongst men will soon come to its end. You've only to complete your part, and freedom is yours. Your debt to our Master—cleared."

The brilliance of the cosmic energy the other summons blinds him—and when his vision returns, The Hand is vanished, taking with him the Enchantress and her loyal guard.

* * *

Rhodey and Pepper had always referred to Natasha as their best friend—but to Natasha, _they_ were the family she never properly had. It was an important qualification to make. After all, best friends know _everything_ about you—you can share with them your _world_—but it's _family_ that you lie to.

The past couple of weeks have been both the longest and fastest in her life. Her time in the lab seems to sweep by her too quickly, but there is a constant edge to the Tower and the office and it only recently has begun to soften. Rhodey is in town for a week and it's a week that's gone too soon—but it's for the best. As much fun as it is to lose sight of responsibility and enjoy herself in the company a friend, the pressing knowledge of what must be done eventually weighs down on her good mood.

While she sees Pepper as regularly as ever, things are different. The familiarity of years is still there, but Natasha often resorts to cool tones and dismissive words and, eventually, Pepper falls in line and the looks of concern are replaced by stoic professionalism.

In the end, Rhodey talks her out of taking back the company. And, when her mind has cleared of the hurt and anger of Morgan's betrayal and her frustration with anyone who thought to turn sympathetic eyes upon her, she acknowledges that—despite her efforts to put distance between herself and those she cannot bear to lose—Pepper is not someone she's ready to cut from her life completely.

Her work with Reed is a welcome distraction and her only complaint is that there are not enough hours in the week to divide between Reed, Bruce and Maya. Her work with Bruce and Pym has proven less fruitful than her work on the Zone or Extremis, but the Hulk is an anomaly that refuses to be understood.

"Prison Forty-Two? Why Prison _Forty-Two?"_

Natasha rolls her eyes and stifles a sigh as the now familiar voice interrupts her thoughts. She doesn't bother looking up from her large monitor as she sketches her stylus across the screen. "_Because_—out of a hundred different ideas, it was number forty-two on that list."

"Oh. Cool." Johnny Storm sidles next to her, bumping her shoulder purposely so her drawing hand jolts. She can hear the grin in his tone. "You keep things simple. I like that."

Shaking her head, Natasha looks up with a knowing smile—more amused than intrigued. She recognizes the confidence in his smirk and the leer in his eyes but it does little to kindle her interest. Johnny is attractive, but he's also the sort of college frat-boy type that Natasha had long outgrown.

Without bothering to respond, she looks away to find Reed where he's sequestered himself into a cramped angel over the portal unit, neck stretched in an arc the height of the structure. "Hey, exactly how are we going to do this? We can't just use this space as a cosmic trash can."

Reed blinks down at her from his odd angle—and then his neck rapidly retracts to its normal length and he's stepping away from the portal unit with a pensive frown. " … No. I suppose you're right. We'll have to come up with something." He crosses the lab to her station, stepping around the Iron Woman suit stationed on the platform directly in front of her desk. She smiles at the appraisal in his eyes as he studies the sleek armor. "How are Iron Woman's readings?"

"Looking good," she replies, swiveling her monitor to face him. "You know how you were saying that time flows differently in the Negative Zone than it does on Earth?"

Reed nods, bending at the waist to peer closer at the data on display. "Sure."

As she speaks, she gestures avidly with her hands, her enthusiasm difficult to contain. "Based on preliminary analysis conducted by JARVIS and the Iron Woman, it seems that for every hour on Earth, two weeks pass within the Negative Zone." Leaning over the monitor, she taps several points on the screen to bring up a secondary display—a recording retrieved from a probe as it was pulled into the singularity. "However—the time ratio fluctuates the closer you get to the singularity. Data suggests that the rate of return differs as one moves away from the nexus, but I'm unable to make any significant estimates. Probes never survive the trip back and I have no intention of sending Iron Woman until I know I can get her back."

"Understood," Reed affirms with another nod. He looks up with a pleased smile. "But a time ratio of three-hundred-thirty-six to one gives us something to work with. We'd be able to accomplish much in just a short amount of time."

"Right." Natasha smirks. _When_ they learned how to safely navigate within the Zone, the time flux ensured that construction of the prison would take only a fraction of the time it would on this side of the portal. "Once I finish the design for the new Space Armor, we'll be ready to step inside the Zone ourselves."

With a shared look of approval, Reed turns away to return to his work and Natasha swivels the monitor to face her. Beside her, Johnny whistles and muses, "Wow, you're _way_ too hot to be such a nerd."

Natasha snorts and replaces the singularity analysis with the design specs for Prison 42. "I don't date younger men, Johnny. How many times do I need to tell you?"

Johnny leans into her side, chuckling as he sing-songs, "You don't know what you're _missing_."

Elbowing him away, she rolls her eyes. "I think I _do_."

Cheerfully, he asks, "What's _wrong_ with a little harmless fun?"

"Nothing at all," she replies, just as flippantly. Flicking her eyes up at him, she smirks and murmurs lowly, "But I don't fuck _children_."

He feigns a gasp, slapping hand over his chest dramatically. "Ouch. I'm twenty-five. _Hardly_ a child."

She makes a point to run her eyes down his body appreciatively before looking away dismissively and shrugging. "I like my men with experience."

"Oh, _I've_ got experience, baby. Trust me."

She doesn't deem that declaration worth a response and smiles as she returns to her work.

"Okay. New question, then," he says, stubbornly holding his ground. She merely hums in reply and he asks, "What made you want to become a 'super-hero', anyway? I thought it was for the publicity, but you've nearly gotten yourself killed once or twice, haven't you? Everyone and their mother knows you've got twice as much money as _God_—so why the one-eighty? What changed? Was it Afghanistan?"

From across the lab, Reeds calls out distractedly, "Johnny, leave Natasha alone. You're being insensitive."

Johnny snorts, rolling his eyes and shouting back, "Yeah, like _you'd_ know!"

Maybe if she actually _valued _Johnny's opinion, she'd be offended by the line of questioning. Fortunately, she doesn't really care so she chuckles when she replies, "In all seriousness? I guess I just hit a point in my life where I wondered what things could be like if all the billionaires and government spooks tried to _save_ the world instead of bleeding it dry."

Johnny frowns, apparently heavily invested on this thought. "Yeah—but what if you get _killed_. You have a company to run. What _then_?"

It's not like she isn't aware of the risks to being Iron Woman—and she's not so naïve as to hold hope that it won't eventually result in her death—but she won't very well roll over and accept that fate until it's been forced upon her. There is simply too much to do and too many to protect.

"I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get there," she says. "But I don't plan on dying any time soon."

If Johnny had another question prepared, he never gets the chance to voice it.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and when she fishes it out, there's a message glaring back at her—two words and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s familiar logo.

It says:

**SUIT UP.**

* * *

The problem with being a student and working for a multi-billionaire like Natasha Stark was _being a_ _student._

Schoolwork had a way of arranging itself so that Peter was forced to call for days off and on _this_ day it was on account of a study group session that required him to endure the company of apathetic teens when he _could_ be working with _Natasha Stark_ and _Mr. Fantastic_. But the deal he had made with Ms. Stark required him to oblige his commitment to school and the overwhelming urge to impress her mollified his disappointment, if only temporarily.

Of course, because he _is _dealing with _apathetic teenagers_ with more interest in the amount of alcohol they could imbibe than the success of their future, it is just his luck that he spends the next half hour waiting for a group that never shows, only to receive a text from their self-appointed group leader that the meeting would be canceled in favor of 'some _killer party_ at Flash's place'.

Both frustrated and relieved, Peter cheers at the knowledge that he'll get to join his boss after all.

Peter retreats to the alley behind the library to change into costume as the Baxter Building was a ways away and traveling as Spiderman would be faster.

He's halfway there, slinging himself from towering skyscraper to the next by web, and the first thing he notices is the heavy backup in traffic and the blaring of horns—not so unusual at any time of day but something he observes all the same—followed by a now familiar buzzing in the back of his mind that Gwen jokingly referred to as his 'Spidey-sense'.

Frowning, Peter lands horizontally along the display of a billboard—ironically advertising a new model of phone by Stark Industries.

A sudden explosion reverberates from ahead, distracting him from the billboard, and he sees a cloud of debris erupting from the side of a building he recognizes as the S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters Ms. Stark often visits. Taking no time to think , Peter flings out a strip of web that latches onto a building several yards away and tugs hard enough to propel him further, repeating the process until he's crossed the distance to the S.H.I.E.L.D. building. He lands in a crouch on the roof of the building opposite the government facility and squints down at the ground for signs of an aggressor, sees no one—

From within the building, bursting through the upper floors—_another_ heavy explosion sends glass and furniture and debris hurtling out to fall several stories to the street. A thick cloud of debris obstructs his view of what might have caused the second explosion—but, within, he can make out sharp pinpricks of light flickering in small bursts. He thinks he hears shouting of some kind, but it's so slight that even with his enhanced senses, he has difficulty making out words.

His Spider-senses are _blaring_, then, and he prepares for an attack, eyes on the cloud as dust settles and falls to the street. Heavy black smoke is pumping out of the hole that has been punched out of the building's side; strangely, however, the only commotion he hears comes from the street below—and then ahead of him a sudden whining sound and—

When he blinks, for a moment Peter thinks he must be seeing things—because, as the dust clears, a black armored _knight_ emerges astride an equally black stallion.

With _wings._

"What the—"

The horseman and his stallion seem to have leapt out of the building, and then with one powerful motion, the massive wings flap and the dust is scattered and the knight is riding directly for Peter, lance secured under arm and aimed to incapacitate.

"Spiderman!" A small voice screams—but it does not come from the knight and Peter has no chance to look for another speaker because something is tugging at the cloth at his chin and forcing him into a doubled position. "_Duck!"_

Reacting quickly, Peter dives out of the way, narrowly avoiding the horse and the knight's deadly lance. As the knight swoops past him, Peter is knocked off balanced by the strength generated by the stallion's wings with each mighty flap. He rolls to his feet with the momentum and twists to follow the horseman with his eyes—has to blink several times when his mind continues to supply him with the same image of a black knight upon steed when it _had_ to be a hallucination of some sort.

… _Right?_

"Whoa," he murmurs to himself, staring in awe as the winged stallion arcs in the sky in an about-face.

"Hey!"

Startled, Peter looks behind him to find the source of the voice—and just as he does, something grabs at his chin and forces his face forward.

"Right here!"

He stares for a long moment before he is finally able to comprehend the fact that there appears to be a _tiny woman_ fluttering in front of his face, holding his chin as one would the face of a small child to urge them to listen. He thinks the face might be familiar, but he can't seem to turn his focus from the diminutive body clothed in form-fitting black leather with thin, insect-like wings sprouted from her back.

"What … are … " Peter's mind seems to have gone blank.

Fortunately, he's broken from this trance by urgency when another tiny voice calls out: "Jan! He's coming back around!"

The woman—Jan—pulls away from Peter with a scowl, grumbling something about the purposelessness of aliases when they were still using real names. Peter has no time to dwell on his curiosity, however, because the knight is indeed flying back towards him, the stallion kicking out its legs as if it were galloping through the air. The horseman charges towards them, lance hefted against his side, like a competitor at a jousting match, and Peter has the graphic image of being impaled by the man's lance just as the horseman is nearly upon him. Jan dives out of the way and Peter, at the last minute, leaps upwards, summersaulting over the horseman as he rides past—and as Peter rights himself mid-air to land, he twists his torso and flings out a hand to shoot out a string of web.

It hits its mark, catching the lance, and—hand fastened around his end of the web—Peter braces himself just before he is _jerked_ backwards and pulled after the knight. The knight and his stallion take higher into the air and what happens next seems to last an eternity—yet consists of only _seconds _as Peter uses their flight path to build up momentum for a good swing. He calls up to the horseman, "Sorry, buddy—I just don't like it when other people wear snazzier outfits! I'm sure you're a real great guy!"

Then—he _kicks_ out, both legs in front to pull his weight, and he's swinging below the knight in an arc that sweeps him from beneath the knight to his opposite flank, over, then back the other side in a perfect circular path. The knight's helmed head follows his path but he doesn't seem to realize what Peter's done until Peter is falling into descent again, grip still tight on the web, and the length of webbing that had followed his path suddenly pulls _tight_ as Peter lets his body weight _drop_ for the street; the loose circle of web snaps upon the knight, forcing his torso to flatten upon the nape of his stallion, binding him to the steed.

The horse whines in anger and rears its head back as if in retaliation. Sometimes tiny swoops past Peter's ear and he barely glimpses the sight of the tiny woman as she follows the path of the web Peter is still clinging to, up towards the knight, her wings fluttering so fast as to be almost vibrations. Then, she's holding out her palms and they're charging with some sort of electric energy that she releases in quick, condensed bursts, peppering the knight and his horse as she zooms past.

Peter blinks and tries not to think about just how _bizarre_ this entire fight is as he looks around for the nearest approaching surface, launching another stripe of web and releasing the one attached to the knight. He yanks on the new web to fling himself upward into the air, feet first, momentum carrying him high above a commercial building. He rights himself and lands succinctly on the rooftop, whips out another web that catches on a higher building and takes another leap, working himself in this way back to the height of the knight and his stallion just as—with a shout of rage—the knight finally breaks free of his trappings and swings his lance in an arc, narrowly missing Jan.

Concerned for the little lady, Peter calls out, "Yo! Can-Head! Over here!"

Jan dives out of the way and the knight doesn't turn to follow her, instead swiveling his head until he's spotted Peter. Upon sighting him, he kicks his winged horse into action and charges through the air toward him.

"Out of the _way_!" a voice cries out—_not_ Jan—and Peter finds himself narrowly avoiding a wave of _something_ as if swarms past him and towards the knight, enveloping him in a cocoon of something almost _black_ and somehow _alive._

As Peter stares, something zips into his line of sight—and if he had thought he'd seen everything, it doesn't prepare him for the incredulity of seeing a man in a form-fitting red suit, bulky helmet, _astride an winged ant._

"Holy—_what?"_ Peter balks, taking a step back.

The little man seems to be scowling at him from behind his helmet, snapping, "Stay out of our way, Spiderman! We have this!"

"It doesn't really look like you have much of _anything_," Peter can't help quipping back.

The tiny woman, Jan, suddenly flutters from behind Peter, taking her place beside the equally diminutive man. "I dunno, Hank. _I_ think he's being helpful."

"That's not the point!" Hank snaps, frustrated. "It interferes with the—"

The cocoon that had formed around the knight suddenly seems to erupt outward—yet, even dismantled, it doesn't fall away, remaining in scattered pieces surround the knight. It's with a start that Peter realizes that those are _bugs_ and it takes everything in his power not to recoil in disgust.

The knight swings his lance about himself in anger to ward off the offending insects—then he spots Peter and he seems to growl, swiveling his lance about to aim at Peter. With shock, Peter watches as the lance seems to gather energy from its hilt, extending outward along the length of the lance. Reaching out swiftly, Peter wraps his hand around the miniature couple and dodges out of the way just as the lance pulses out a powerful beam of intense energy. Peter hits the concrete of an adjacent building with his shoulder and rolls onto his feet in one movement, just in time to witness the beam of energy he'd just _barely_ managed to avoid carve a furrow through the roof of the building, melting through concrete and stone like soft butter.

"What the—_" _Peter starts, horrified and feeling a flicker of worry for the first time since this encounter began. He looks up to the knight to see him charging another attack. "_Man!_ What kind of knight _are_ you? This is _insane!"_

"Hey! Let us _go_, you twerp!" Jan screeches from his fest.

Peter looks down at his hands and releases the couple with a jolt of surprise. He'd forgotten about them. "Sorry!"

Jan hovers to eye level and scowls. She's preparing to say something when Peter sees the knight draw—a _pistol_. He takes aim and Peter only has enough time to shout, "Look out!" before the knight has taken aim and fires. Peter leaps backwards and the tiny couple easily flee—but when the bullet strikes the concrete roof, missing all of them completely, Peter sees that they had not been the target when a thick plume of smoke explodes from the point of impact.

Peter, a safe distance from the gas, doesn't chance getting any closer. Hank and Jan flit to either side of his face—but the knight is aiming his lance at them and all three heroes dive out of the way for fear of whatever new tricks the knight has to show.

"We should work together!" Peter calls out to the tiny couple as the horseman sweeps past him—and this time, he's not entirely quick enough; the lance graces his side and he cries out as whatever current is charged within the weapon jolts him with what feels like ten thousand volts of electricity. Peter lands on his back, fortunately falling to the roof than his imminent death if he'd fallen to the street.

"We have this under control!" Hank snaps as he whizzes past Peter with a swarm of his insects behind him, leading them towards the knight like a commander leading a cavalry.

Peter grunts as he hefts himself to his feet, hand hovering over the fresh wound across his side. It hurt like _all_ hell but he'd probably survive. He calls after Hank, "What we _have_ here is a _failure_ to communicate. We need to—"

The insect swarm continues past Hank and attempt to form another cocoon around the knight as he charges for them. Hank maneuvers his ant to bring him to a hover in front of Peter's nose and he scowls as he declares, "_We _work for _S.H.I.E.L.D. _and we only have _ten minutes _so we don't need some _vigilante_—"

"Ten minutes?" Peter frowns, feeling a moment of panic. Was there something more going on that he didn't know? "What do you mean ten—?"

"_Damn it!_" Hank snaps suddenly, angling his head skyward as if he could hear something Peter could not. "It's too _late_—"

Urgently, Peter demands, "Too late for _what?"_

But then, ahead of them where the knight had succeeded in evading the swarm of insects—three powerful and brilliant bursts of energy strike into his flank, one right after the next, knocking him clear off his stallion at _last._

* * *

The Quinjet isn't a faster mode of travel, but it had been the fastest way of getting her a suit that wouldn't take her half an hour to extract from the machines she and Reed had rigged the SA Armor to. Coulson is in the co-pilot's seat to greet and debrief her.

"Ant-Man and the Wasp—" Coulson is saying and Natasha swivels around to balk incredulously, helmet hovering just above her head.

"Who_?_" For a moment, Natasha wonders if she'd missed something and Coulson was actually making a _joke. _

Coulson doesn't look away from the controls in front of him and says, "Pym and van Dyne."

The locks on the drop hatch disengage and the whistling of the wind nearly drowns her out as she demands, "_Excuse_ me?"

Throwing an exasperated look over his shoulder, Coulson shouts over the noise, "Just get down there, Stark!"

Growling in annoyance, Natasha aggressively shoves the helmet in place and turns to face the exit—releases the gravity on her boots as she marches down the ramp. As the Quinjet picks up speed, she is pulled into the sky by the momentum of its departure. She allows herself to go into free-fall for a moment as she surveys the scene below her—spots only Spiderman and a man dressed in medieval armor upon a winged horse—and then activates the thrusters in her boots and _dives_ headlong for the armored knight, charging her repulsors and the chest-mounted Uni-beam.

It's evidence of just how little can surprise her that she doesn't really think twice about the fact there's a man flying around on a winged stallion, decked out in black armor, complete with a serious-looking lance. Instead, she takes a second to scan his armor before pumping the knight with two consecutive repulsor blasts, following it with a condensed burst from the Uni-beam, knocking the knight from his stallion. Natasha arcs in the air to follow his descent and watches as his body crushes against the side of a building, breaking some of the momentum before he goes hurtling to the ground, landing heavily on the asphalt directly in front of an awaiting Captain America.

Though the knight lands heavily, he recovers from his fall almost immediately, rolling into a fighting stance and launching himself at the Captain, lance extended. The Captain fiercely deflects the lance with his shield, pinning the weapon against the side of the brick building adjacent. Stunned and defenseless, the knight isn't quick enough to react before Rogers' fist pummels into the side of his helmed face.

The force of the blow parts him from his lance and sends him flying backwards. Natasha sweeps in, pulling herself upright and landing behind the knight as he's struggling to his feet, shaken from the mighty blow. Hunched, the knight curls an arm around his side, indicating injury—which Natasha confirms by scanning the man's body, examining his physical state as she conducts an analysis of the armor. While the knight braces himself, he seems to recognize the futility of being caught between them.

Across from her, Rogers readjusts his shield to his side and as the lance falls when no longer held in place he catches it swiftly with his free hand before it can meet the ground and directs it at the knight just as Natasha raises a palm to aim a charged repulsor at their opponent.

"Now would be a good time to give up," Natasha says.

Suddenly, from their left, the knight's stallion barrels down on them and Natasha propels herself skyward just in time to avoid getting hit. The knight quickly uses the distraction to hurl himself over the horse. The creature's massive wings flap once and they're airborne—and as they fly away, tiny bio-electric bursts seem to follow in their wake. Frowning, Natasha scans the small explosions, but before she can study them further, the knight has drawn a pistol and is aiming it at the Captain.

"Cap!" Natasha shouts.

Rogers looks up and acts quickly, tossing up the lance for her to catch. She catches it by the hilt and, in one powerful burst of her armor's enhanced strength, she hurls the lance like a javelin in the knight's direction. Immediately, the knight drops his hand and tugs on the reins of his stallion, urging it forward—but from his opposite side, another chaotic flurry of short bio-electric blasts pepper his side and he isn't fast enough to avoid the lance which pierces into his shoulder, knocking him off his horse.

Natasha knows the moment he strikes the ground that the man is not getting up.

As if on cue, a half dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles flood the streets, surrounding the fallen knight. Lowering herself the pavement to stand beside the Captain, Natasha sees Coulson approach.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. just sits back now while us grunts do all the work?" Natasha sniffs when Coulson is within distance, glowering at the agents from behind her mask as they usher the knight into a reinforced security vehicle. Rogers joins them so they form a small huddle away from the commotion and she tries not to think about the swirling nervous guilt in her belly that comes from simply standing in the man's presence.

"Agent Hill ordered them to stand back. She wanted to give Ant-Man and Wasp a chance to handle it," Coulson explains, a note of disapproval in his tone. "When that didn't work, Fury had us call you in."

Rogers seems confused. "That was reckless. Why would Agent Hill take that kind of risk?"

Natasha snorts, "Because she hates the fact that Fury's got me on his leash, now."

Surprised, Rogers looks to her and frowns. "What? I thought you weren't—"

"Stark is permitting S.H.I.E.L.D. use of the Iron Woman on a contractual basis," Coulson says, nodding appreciatively in Natasha's direction. A shout from behind calls his attention and he glances over his shoulder before sighing and turning to her. "I need to take care of this. Will you be returning to the Baxter Building, Stark?"

"Once I get cleaned up."

With a nod, Coulson retreats after his fellow agents—yet he isn't gone even a full minute before a voice is calling out:

"Hey, guys! Fancy meeting _you_ here!"

Scowling, Natasha follows the sound up to spot the young vigilante standing on the wall behind her, perpendicular to the ground. "Spiderman. What are you doing? This is _S.H.I.E.L.D.'s_ playground."

Shrugging, Spiderman replies cheerfully, "I know. But I wasn't going to just stand around and not _do_ anything." He nods his head in the direction of the agents but Natasha doesn't follow his gaze. Curiously, he asks, "Are they going to be able to restrain him?"

She snorts softly, realizing that the kid probably hasn't caught on to her evident disapproval with her faceplate still in place. She doesn't bother removing it, however, and replies, "With what they can. There's nothing really built to contain criminals of this caliber. I'm working to fix that."

He nods thoughtfully, then remarks, "What are they going to do with the flying horse?"

"I don't know. It's not my problem."

He chuckles, almost as if to himself, and says, "Maybe Loki can have it. Magic flying horses might be his thing."

"_Loki?"_ Natasha balks, stunned. Beside her, Rogers looks equally surprised and she glares up at the kid, suspicious. "How the hell do you know _Loki?"_

Recognizing the hostility in her tone, Spiderman seems to recoil. "I've—oh—I—well—I've run into him. A couple of times. On the street. I ran into some trouble with the Sandman a while back when he escaped. Loki—Loki helped me out."

Incredulously, Rogers mutters, "Loki _helped_ you capture the Sandman?"

She hadn't even known the Sandman had _escaped, _but that wasn't the issue. She'd deal with it later because whatever Loki had been up to that had led him to lend aid to _Spiderman_, of all people, was probably not something she wanted _Rogers _looking into. "Look—okay," she mutters, waving her hand dismissively. "Fascinating as that is, we can discuss it later. You've helped a lot—which is probably more than I can say for _those_ two bumbling idiots—but you should go before someone sees you."

Surprised, Spiderman allows himself to drop so he's standing between them. A little uncertainly, he nods. "Ah—right. Okay. Guess I'll—"

Natasha's eyes fall to his side and she reaches out a hand to stall him before he can go. "Wait. You're hurt?"

There's a lengthy scratch running along his side. It doesn't look deep, but it's still bleeding languidly and—had the kid been _bleeding_ while casually holding a conversation? _Jesus Christ!_

Spiderman glances down at his wound and gestures at it flippantly, "Oh. This? I—"

Shaking her head in exasperation, Natasha retrieves a small canister from a side compartment in her armor. Holding out the canister, she makes a point to sound disapproving, even with the filtered monotone of Iron Woman's voice. "Here. Apply this on the wound. It'll keep it from bleeding and numb the pain until you can get it looked at."

Spiderman accepts the canister like it's something delicate, holding it with both hands and says, "Ah—_wow_. Thanks."

Natasha snorts, rolling her eyes. "Yeah. Sure. Just get out of here, kid."

With a salute, Spiderman shoots out a strip of web towards a building in the opposite direction of the commotion in the street and whisks himself away. Natasha watches him go, shaking her head, and Rogers says, "I like him."

Natasha is startled by the declaration but Iron Woman remains impassive as always. Turning, she resumes vigil over the clean-up crew that had replaced the extraction agents. After a minute, she mumbles, "He's not so bad."

She can't think of a reason to remain any longer but the twisting in her gut roots her in place. She tries not to think about the horrible things they'd said to each other or the ugly emotions unveiled from the encounter but it's impossible with Rogers so close to side. She is no stranger to shame, but to feel it on account of actions she'd always thought to be justified felt like sacrificing a part of herself she was not willing to part with. She felt irritated simply by standing in the man's presence, but it was an ire born to spite the guilt she felt because—why should _she_ be made the bad guy yet again? How was it that Rogers yet proved to be the more noble—the _true_ hero—simply by virtue of being_ himself?_

Standing beside him she feels like a snail or a tortoise, lumbering along in her shell, so clumsy—so _inferior—_next to his poise, suffering guilt for transgressions born of misunderstanding and yet there he is, without a _shred_ of accusation in the calm of his blue eyes. She didn't know if she could ever forgive Rogers for taking of her father what her Howard had never been willing to share with _her_, but she understood know what she should have known long before—Rogers was not at _fault_ for the sins of her father, any more than _she_ was. So accustomed had she grown to allowing others to place judgment based on carefully crafted persona that she'd forgotten others were just as capable of maintaining facades of their own—even if not all were crafted specifically and with purpose. Rogers' had been _given_ his mask—he'd been given Captain America to become and embody and it had never occurred to her that there could be anything more behind the stars and shield and legendary presence.

She'd made a _mistake._

And _damn_ if it didn't piss her off.

Natasha didn't _do_ guilt well. Certainly not when there was no way to offer repayment but for words—yet words were pointless here because to speak candidly would encourage a camaraderie she had no desire for. She hasn't spent the last several weeks burying friendships only to build a _new_ one—which is something Rogers is sentimental enough to offer in return for reconciliation.

"Stark," Rogers says suddenly—and it sounds as if he is greeting her for the first time. It sounds like an acknowledgment and her stomach jolts uncomfortably as she bites back her immediately response of: _'Captain'._

_"Tell me you've never thought of me as anything other than some _story_ your father used to feed to you before _bedtime_."_

She's not ready to offer apology nor even truce, though her shame is all-encompassing.

Carefully, she nods and says, "Rogers."

Rogers is watching her openly and though she can see him clearly, she keeps Iron Woman's unreadable face turned to the street. Neutrally, Rogers asks, "How are you?"

Natasha snorts, but her words lack bite. "You don't need to worry. I'm _stable_."

"That's not what I meant," Rogers sighs. "I only mean—you were injured pretty severely after your fight with The Melter."

Natasha makes a face of distaste, the expression hidden by the Iron Woman mask. "Is _that_ what we're calling him?"

"That's what he's calling _himself_."

Natasha groans. "_God_."

Rogers continues, undeterred. "Anyway, what I'm saying is—your wounds couldn't have healed in such a short amount of time. In addition to that, after what happened with—"

"I'm _fine. _Mentally. Physically_," _she says, tone hardening as her generalized ire attempts to seize the opportunity to find a target to direct itself towards. "So you can drop it."

"Stark, I'm just trying to—ah," Rogers straightens suddenly and lowers his voice. "Eight o'clock."

Turning, Natasha spots Pym and van Dyne standing together, away from the other agents, speaking animatedly amongst themselves. They're dressed in uniforms Natasha expects must have been handed out by S.H.I.E.L.D. for the purpose of making those two feel moderately useful. Pym's is an all red bodysuit, complete with a rounded steel helmet fitted with two antennae; beside him, van Dyne is dressed in a black bodysuit by contrast, the belly and chest region of the suit colored a bright yellow. The S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem is absent on both, but Hill doesn't like to promote the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. facilitates the utilization of super heroes on the field, so Natasha isn't surprised.

"Pym!" Natasha calls out.

Both Pym and van Dyne turn and the latter grins, taking Pym by the arm and dragging him towards Natasha and Rogers with evident excitement. Extracting his arm from van Dyne's grasp, Pym removes his helmet and frowns. "You recognized me, huh?"

"Maybe next time get your _girlfriend_ a mask, too," Natasha intones in Iron Woman's voice. "What do you two think you're doing?"

Pym's frown deepens. "What does it look like?"

Beside him, his girlfriend grins. "We're _super heroes_, now!"

"The _fuck_ you are," Natasha grits out, glowering. "Are you _trying _toget yourselves _killed?"_

Immediately defensive, Pym snaps, "Hey! We didn't _ask_ for your help! We were doing just fine before you decided to butt in!"

Ignoring her boyfriend's resentment completely, van Dyne turns a flirtatious smile to Rogers and says, "You can call me _Wasp!_ Hank goes by Ant-Man—"

"And that's _real_ fascinating," Natasha sneers, "But a couple of fucking _insects_ are only going to get themselves _squashed."_

Pym laughs, expression twisted in derision, making his distaste of her evident. "What? Are you _threatened_? You're not the only super hero in town anymore and you want to hog all the attention for yourself?"

"You're an idiot if you think that's what this is about," Natasha replies coolly. "You don't know the first _thing_ about—"

"Stark," Rogers says suddenly, almost placating. "Why _shouldn't_ they help us defend the city? We can't always be there. It wouldn't be the worst thing to have a little back-up."

_They're_ _civilians!—_she wants to argue, using the same argument Rogers had once given for why _Natasha_ was unsuited for the job.

But, of course, Rogers would always see her as some incompetent little rich girl in a shiny suit of armor, unworthy of the title of hero the city had bestowed upon her. Not but a few minutes ago he'd been questioning whether she should even _be_ here—when she had never done anything to prove she was anything _but _capable—yet _these_ two imbeciles he could welcome with open _arms?_

And then Jan says, "Now we can be Avengers, too! Be part of a _team_!" and that seems to be the last straw.

Whatever patience she might have had _snaps _and she turns to the younger woman and _snarls, _"There _is_ no team. There are no _Avengers._ You two are going to get yourselves or someone _killed_. This isn't a _game_ and you two better figure out whether this is a responsibility you're ready to _accept_ because if it _isn't—_take off the suits now and _walk_ the fuck _away_!"

Furiously, Natasha doesn't offer a chance for rebuttal; thrusters activating, she rockets into the sky.

* * *

Stark's parting words resonate within Steve long after she's gone as an echo of an argument they'd shared between them long before—when Steve had not known to look beyond the show Stark put on for the rest of the world and had believed in the illusion she sustained for her public.

Steve hasn't seen either Pym or his girlfriend in action, so he can't say whether they'd make good heroes or not, but they can be _trained_, and the additional aid would benefit them _all_. Stark had proven countless times that Iron Woman was a formidable opponent, but that didn't mean she couldn't use time to heal. Armor could be repaired, but human flesh was not so easily mended. Despite their differences, Steve didn't want to see her push herself beyond the limitations of her abilities. She didn't have a specialized serum pumping through her veins to hasten the stitching of her wounds. She only had her technology—and machines could _break._ His concern was for her health, yet it seemed _once again_ he'd failed to convey these sentiments without inciting her anger.

"Man, Stark can be such a bitch sometimes," Pym says after a moment, startling Steve from his thoughts.

"Sometimes?" van Dyne laughs, hooking an arm around Pym's . The distaste in Pym's expression at the thought of Stark is absent from van Dyne's grinning face. She laughs again and says, "I think it's cool. It's like—her _thing_, you know?"

Pym scoffs, muttering, "I don't like that she thinks she can tell _us_ what to do."

"I wouldn't worry about it," van Dyne replies soothingly, pressing a swift kiss to Pym's cheek. When she grins, Steve is reminded of the excitement of a child. "Can you believe we're really going to be super heroes?"

It takes a moment for Pym's irritation to dissolve. Eventually, he exhales and shares a smile with her, replies, "I know. You and me: the two biggest science nerds on the _planet_, out there—fighting for truth, justice, and The American Dream."

Laughing, van Dyne squeals, "How much does _this_ make up for all those years never getting picked to play in P.E.?"

"She's not _wrong_, though." Frowning, Steve doesn't know what prompts him to speak—he doesn't really _know_ either of them outside of the lab.

Startled, Pym blinks at him. "What?"

"Stark," Steve says. "She's not wrong. There's a _lot_ of responsibility."

Pym snorts, grinning and rolling his eyes, "Yeah, okay—but if _Stark_ can do it, why can't _I?_ Seriously. Stark wouldn't know the first _thing_ about being a hero."

The comment strikes a nerve—the part of himself that still can't _forgive_ because he knows Pym's words resonate with words he'd spoken to Coulson in confidence. Scowling, Steve mutters, "You should not speak about what you know nothing about. Stark has sacrificed far _more_ for this country than you realize."

"_What_ sacrifice? Her _money?_" Pym loses his grin when he seems to realize Steve does not share his derision for his former teammate. "She's got plenty of _that_—even _without_ her government contracts, she's _still_ raking it in." Steve prepares to counter that it's not _about _how much money Stark has, but Pym continues, taking a step towards him and saying, "See, that's the thing. Stark's _always_ had it all. She isn't _like_ you or me. She doesn't _know_ what it's like to be the underdog. _She's_ always been the bully—and this country doesn't need another bully to pick fights and start wars."

Steve scowl darkens. "Stark isn't—"

Pym holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Hey, man—it's cool if you're, like, her _friend_ or whatever," he says this as if the idea of Stark having friends is a _joke. "_And I get you two have your _thing_ and that the world is totally in _love_ with Iron Woman and Captain America—but maybe it's time to make room for _new_ heroes?"

Beside Pym, van Dyne looks between them in concern—for which Steve cannot fault her because the urge to set the other man straight of strong and it's only in small part due to lingering guilt for his part in the animosity between himself and Stark.

When Steve fails to supply response—has nothing to say that he believes the other would acknowledge—Pym smiles as if pleased and drops an arm around van Dyne's shoulders as he moves to go. Steve watches them walk, hands tightened to fists, and wonders how Stark has ever managed to resist bashing in the faces of all the ignorant jerks who'd thought to presume judgment on her when they understood little at all.

* * *

Her shoulder and side ache dully as she drops with an ungraceful _thud_ on the landing pad. As the device comes alive, rotating rings and arms working to remove her armor, she heads into the penthouse with a scowl.

The argument with Rogers in his apartment was a distant memory, robbed of full effect by Amora's meddling, yet it was too easy to let her irritation swell by the simplest of statements. Her memory of the encounter fills her with shame and the prospect of it is _infuriating_ because it rejects the idea she has established in her mind about Rogers and it's _confusing_ and _frustrating_ because she _knows_ how she feels about Rogers—she _knows_ who he was and who he'd been to her father and what his legacy had meant for _her_. She _knows_ Captain America better than _anyone_ and had begrudged his place in her life from the moment she'd been old enough to understand that her father's favor could never fall upon another so long as the shadow of the Captain's memory remained.

She didn't like to be wrong—and that she could be wrong about _Rogers_ was …

It was incomprehensible.

The result is anger renewed from its dormant state—at _Rogers_ for robbing her of the ability to even _resent_ him without the feeling of _guilt_; at _herself_ and at her _father_ and _Amora_ and _everything_.

The last thing she wants is to deal with _any_ of this—is ready to drown dark thoughts in a bottle of scotch until sleep claims her and she can regain her composure without the memory of Rogers' tentative gaze carefully assessing her for weakness—but of course, she is not so lucky.

Pepper is waiting for her when she enters the penthouse, determined gaze following her until Natasha sweeps past her. Pepper swivels on her heels to follow as Natasha makes her way to the nearest bathroom so she can clean up.

"You shouldn't have gone out there. You're still healing," Pepper says as they enter the bathroom—fitted with only a toilet, sink, and tub, yet about as large as Rogers' entire kitchen.

The reminder of the man has her scowl deepening and her words come out sharper than intended. "I'm fine. I had plenty of back-up."

"Which is exactly why you should have let _them_ handle it," Pepper reasons, coming up behind her when Natasha goes to stand in front of the medicine cabinet. As Natasha reaches under her arms to undo the slender zippers tracking from her biceps to her wrists so she can roll up the sleeves of her under-armor, Pepper reaches around her to fish the first-aid kit from out of the medicine cabinet. "You know, you _are_ allowed to sit some out. You don't _always_ have to fight."

With peroxide and cottons in hand, Pepper waits while Natasha works the zipper down her front, stopping just below the reactor so she can shrug the shoulders of her under-armor off. They watch each other quietly through the mirror on the medicine cabinet and Natasha doesn't respond.

Eventually, with a sigh, Pepper shakes her head and moistens the cottons in her hand with peroxide. Natasha reaches for her left shoulder, carefully removing the bandage taped over the burn. Her face is impassive as she studies the damaged flesh but Pepper physically recoils from the sight of burnt skin and the slivers of cracked flesh revealing bright stripes of blood as a result of stretching the shoulder beyond what the scabbing could allow. Gathering her will, Pepper works quietly and with familiarity, dabbing away blood and cleaning the areas where damaged flesh met unblemished skin. As she works, Natasha carefully takes soap into her hands and flips on the faucet. She lathers her arms and works off the sweat and the sticky grime from where a stray bio-electric shot had missed the knight and pierced into the insulation layer of her suit, leaking coolant gel all down her arm.

By the time she's done removing the gel, Pepper has already applied a new dressing to her shoulder. Natasha's eyes meet hers briefly through the mirror before she snatches a hand towel from the neatly folded stack next to the sink. Her brow is still furrowed with memory of darker thoughts and irritation flares because she can sense Pepper's mood—recognizes the stubborn set of her jaw and the challenging flare in her eyes.

"Loki still in the dog house?" Pepper asks, apropos to nothing.

Natasha wipes with more aggression than required at her sweaty neck. Exasperated, she snaps, "What?"

"I haven't seen Loki," Pepper says, dropping the sarcasm.

Natasha snorts, rolling her eyes because—Bruce had spent the last several _weeks_ trying to extract Loki's whereabouts from her, as if she were the God's fucking _keeper_. She refrains sneering out of respect for Pepper, but she can't help if her tone is a little nasty. "Yeah? Well, maybe he's _gone_. That's what you guys wanted, isn't it? You and Bruce and basically _everybody else_."

"That's not true, Natasha," Pepper says patiently, as if speaking to a child.

"_Really_?" Natasha throws an incredulous look over her shoulder, scowling. "You and Bruce suddenly have a change of heart? _That's_ nice."

She throws the towel into the sink furiously and shrugs back into the bodysuit, zipping the front and unrolling the sleeves. Pepper doesn't say anything, for which Natasha is glad because she's lost her patience with Pepper before—_sure_—but she's never been _angry_ with Pepper. Not _really_. Frustrated, maybe. But never angry.

Yet, this wasn't a situation in which they could find common ground. Natasha was tired of selfishly putting the people she cared about in the line of fire because she'd decided, on a whim, that maybe she'd like to play super hero _after all—_what had started out as a means for survival had become an escape that quickly became so much _more_ when she realized just how much the world _needed_ someone like Iron Woman. But it had come at a price and even if she didn't know the cost was one she could pay, it was too late to turn back now without betraying everyone._  
_

Pepper wasn't an idiot and Natasha didn't pretend to think that Pepper was oblivious to sudden distance in their friendship. Though a part of her realized that Pepper was allowing her space, Natasha couldn't help but feel infinitely frustrated whenever Pepper showed her any display of concern or affection. Against reason, she finds herself wishing Pepper would give up completely—spare them both the heartache.

Natasha looks up into the mirror and locks eyes with Pepper—then, almost immediately after, _Loki_ appears behind them, standing just outside the bathroom in the hall.

"Loki!" Pepper turns sharply to face him but Loki's eyes are on Natasha and Natasha scowls back at him through the mirror.

"Natasha, I would have words," he says without acknowledging Pepper.

She shakes her head, breaking their gaze to look down at the sink. "Give me a minute between rounds—then _you_ can have a go at me," Natasha mutters as she runs the faucet to clear the basin of soap suds and gel residue.

"I guess I should go," Pepper murmurs, looking between them thoughtfully before retreating out of the bathroom to give them privacy.

The moment she's gone, Loki steps into the bathroom, frowning. "What are you doing?"

Natasha looks up into the mirror and sneers, "Designing a new propulsion system—what does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

Shutting the faucet, she turns and moves to storm past him. He catches her by the arm before she can make it out the door, bowing his head in her direction and saying gravely, "Pause for a moment and allow me opportunity to speak."

Everything, from his posture to his tone, indicates he is not here merely to _speak._ The last time they'd spoke had ended in a shouting match that was cut short by Rhodey's appearance. With Pepper fleeing the scene, there was no one to interfere who would _dare_ to interfere and Natasha was _done_ being subjected to interrogation after interrogation. Bruce and Pepper—_Rogers_—seemed to question whether she could properly _walk_ without someone to fucking hold her _hand!_ Even S.H.I.E.L.D. had designated a damn _nanny_ to keep watch over her—for fear of _what?_ she didn't know. It wasn't like she could pose much harm outside the suit surrounded by all these _super powered_ assholes. She was grossly outmatched in terms of physical strength and it didn't _help_ that S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed inclined to delegate when she _should_ or _shouldn't_ be in armor because Maria-Fucking-_Hill_ was in league with fucking _Satan_ himself or something.

Natasha had never thought it'd be possible to find someone she despised more than Fury—but it was _possible._

These thoughts fuel her irritation. Tugging her arm away, she scowls up. "You mean speak _at_ me? Because it doesn't really seem like anyone is interested in what _I _have to say."

"You—" Loki swallows possible retort, expression twisted in frustration. He takes a deep breath through his nose as if to contain his temper and scowls, grunting, "_You_ have a _tremendous_ capacity for incensing one who only seeks to lay conflict to rest."

She snorts and moves for the exit but Loki steps into her way, catching her by the shoulder—fortunately, the _good_ shoulder. A growl of annoyance escapes her before she has the chance to catch herself. She snarls, "So what is it _today_? Gunna tell me how I should be running my _company_, now, as well?"

Loki's scowl lightens and he shakes his head. "No. I am done urging you to see reason when it is clear you are too blinded by—"

Was he being serious? "If you're just _trying_ to piss me off again, you can—"

"I'm not," Loki insists, hand tightening at her shoulder to impress that he was speak the truth, his other hand coming up to curl around her the side of her neck. He leans forward and his eyes are hard to look directly into. "I'm _not_."

She doesn't exactly feel calmer, but she lowers her voice, crossing her arms in indignation. "Then what do you want?"

Sighing, Loki's hands fall away and he reaches behind him to shut the door. "I came in the hopes that time and distance would temper your ire, but I see that has not been the case."

She sneers, "Well, _maybe_ if the first fucking thing out of your mouth wasn't fucking _judgment_—then _maybe_ I'd be a little more agreeable!"

Loki opens his mouth to respond—and his teeth _click _when he clamps it shut instead, words extinguished before passing lips. He seems both annoyed and confounded by her anger and a part of her realizes that he has every right to be.

If she is to be honest with herself, it's easier to focus her anger on Loki because it is _Loki_. She doesn't have to pretend to be a better person—or even a _good_ person. She can speak freely and openly and it doesn't _matter_. There is a freedom to her relationship with Loki that she can't share with anyone else—because who _else_ could she talk to when darker thoughts take root and logic demands morality to be discarded to allow room for reason? If she thinks about all that she must _do_ to ensure the safety of those she loves she knows that not all would understand. She needs to be in _control_. She cannot be tethered to probabilities and possibilities—she must be able to control _everything_ because she can't afford yet another wayward villain taking advantage of the sentiments of _heroes_ like Rogers. Sentiment was what had led Morgan to succeed in his deception—it was what had allowed her to be blind to Loki's true identity and to Obadiah's duality.

She supposes that it's the anxiety of embarking upon a course yet uncharted that has put her on edge. Every time she glimpses the concern in the gazes of those she was privileged to call friends, the weight of what must be sacrificed for the greater good almost seems too much. She _lived_ for taking risks—but to pave a solid foundation for the future, she would have to risk more than she ever has before. It would be the biggest gamble in history—but it would pay off. It would _have_ to pay off. She was willing to sacrifice her status as a friend, colleague—as a '_hero'_—for the greater good of this country_._ She would wage _war_ against any who thought to bring harm to her family. She could burn _worlds._

The truth of it is frightening.

… And that's the rub.

Because she is supposed to be one of the _good guys_—

But she knows that what must be done is something only _Loki_ would understand.

And here he is and—maybe it isn't fair to expect him to stand at her side without question, but she's so completely _done_ with the guilt and the shame and Loki just needs to _not_ question her and—

In frustration, Natasha blurts, "It's bad enough I get it from _Rogers_, of all people—"

"_Rogers_?" Loki balks, his annoyance briefly replaced by confusion. "What does _he_ have to do with anything?"

Throwing her arms up in frustration, Natasha realizes that she doesn't even know _what_ she is saying anymore. She speaks each thought as it comes to mind, realizing their truth only after the words have passed. "Your fuckin' girlfriend—_Amora_—she—if she hadn't screwed with my head I wouldn't have even been _speaking _to Rogers! Nothing would have _changed_ and—"

Natasha cuts herself off, burrowing her hands into her hair and squeezing her eyes shut. She breathes deeply through her nose, willing herself to relax.

"What are you talking about?" Loki asks, his lack of comprehension echoing in his exasperation. "What _of_ Amora? What does it have to do with _Rogers_?"

"Nothing," Natasha mutters bitterly, feeling the muscles around her mouth twitching in efforts to contain another sneer. _God_—this lack of control in so many aspects of her life was _driving her insane!_ Her words are clipped and her hands tighten to painful fists around the roots of her hair to give her something to focus on. "It's _nothing_. I had a disagreement—with Rogers—which I conveniently _forgot_ and now—"

"What does this have to do with _me_?"

Dropping her hands, Natasha opens her eyes to scowl at him. "Not _everything_ is about _you._"

Loki sneers, "Yet it _always_ seems to be about _Rogers."_

She can't explain the flare of indignation, but Rogers' name alone seems sufficient in obliterating any attempts to regain control over her temper. "Oh—_fuck_ off!" she snaps angrily, turning away from him abruptly, only to remember she has nowhere to go. She scowls at the marble counters, then at Loki's reflection in the mirror—finds it easier to hold _his_ gaze than look into the reflection of her eyes.

Loki moves forward, taking her arm and jerking her about to face him, snarling, "Barely the breath of a word past my lips and _already_ you seek quarrel—"

"I don't need this from you," Natasha mutters, slapping away his hand. "I'm fucking tired of hearing shit from _you_—from _Pepper_ and _Bruce_ and _Rogers_ and fucking—the _whole world!_ Screw you and your _'words'!"_

Loki looks like he wants to argue—and then he does, his tone retaining a note of skepticism as he says, "If this is about _Morgan_—"

Natasha huffs a derisive laugh, rolling her eyes. "Oh, and I am _done_ hearing about _Morgan._ Shove it up your ass. Thank you. _Bye._"

When she tries to step around him, he blocks her with an arm around her waist and pulls her back to stand in front of him, shaking his head in aggravation. "Then your issues are with _Rogers_. In which case—do not _project_ them unto _me_—"

"_Excuse_ me—_"_ Natasha snaps, jabbing a finger into his collar as she sneers, "_You_ came _here_! You don't have the _right_ to get upset with me when you've done _nothing_ but give me _shit_ because of Morgan! You and Rogers—just—_fuck_ you _both_! I don't have to fucking deal with it!"

"You're not even angry with _me_!" Loki snaps—and she only realizes that his hand is curled around her elbow when it tightens in response to his annoyance. "You're angry with _Rogers_. Yet you _spurn_ my attempts at reconciliation because of whatever offense he has made against you this time and—"

"_Oh_, don't pretend you know what you're talking about—"

"I don't _have _to know! Your story writes _itself," _Loki declares venomously, clearly discarding whatever semblance of patience he'd maintained for this confrontation. "You spend _half_ your time comparing yourself to that man you believe your father wanted you to be! You've _convinced_ yourself that Rogers epitomizes everything you should be and you've spent all your life running from that—_molding_ yourself into its total opposite. He is your _obsession_! For _all_ your efforts to denounce the importance of his significance in your life, it is _you _who has afforded him the grandest pedestal of all!"

The words _sting_—strike her somewhere in her center—and Natasha only sees _red._

"Really? You want to do this? _Really_? Okay—" She laughs scathingly and sneers, "How's _Thor_? How'd the trip back _home_ fair for you? You know—_before_ you were exiled back to _Earth_? Did you get some _bonding_ time with the All-Daddy?" Loki rears back, dropping his hand from her as if burnt—and the _fury _in his eyes only fuels her to continue. "You want to talk about _obsessions_? Let's talk about your obsession with _Thor_. You blame him for _everything _that has gone wrong in your life when it is _obvious_ that your issues lie with your father." She laughs again, humorlessly. "And trust me—I _recognize_ daddy-issues when I see them. And, _honey_—you're _swimming_ in them."

Loki snarls, "You do not know _anything_ about me—"

"And _you_ don't know a goddamn _thing_ about _me_!" Natasha spits back, breathless with rage. "You're so good at psychoanalyzing every little thing that I do or say—like you're _pretending_ you're not exactly the same! Like you're not just as _flawed_—just as _damaged_! I _know_ how fucked up I am, Loki—_thank_ you _very_ much! I don't need someone as _broken_ as _you_ to list all my _fucking_ faults and recount all my sins—I _know_. I was _there_. I _remember_!"

She is struck by an overwhelming rush of _something_. It leaves her breathless—and yet, it's as if she can _breathe_ again. As if she'd broken the surface of unrelenting waves at _last_ and each inhalation fills her to completion—

And that's _it_.

That is _everything_, she thinks as her breathing slowly begins to calm.

It _feels_ like everything.

It feels like every nagging little thought which had burrowed over the past year had found it's voice—and even those thoughts which had not been given words had seemed to merge with all the rest and the animosity and resentment seem to wash over her like a flood—

But as the minutes tick past and they continue to stare at each other, defensive and offensive all at once and glares challenging the other to refute accusations—the flood slips away without the barrier of stifled words to dam the emotions.

She sees it in Loki's eyes—the shared moment in which they both realize that all the anger between them was sudden, so _simply_, extinguished.

And then Loki breathes, "It _is_ Rogers," announcing it like it's a marvel and Natasha has to look away because without her anger, she feels exposed—feels as if Loki could look at her and know _everything _without a barricade between them. Loki murmurs, "He is the one who has incited this hostility."

Natasha sighs, scrubbing a hand down her face and shaking her head. Resignedly, she says, "Just _drop_ it, Loki."

Loki startles her by taking her wrist and pulling her hand away from her face. When she looks up in surprise, he's glowering at her. "Your gaze burns with a resentment for the man—an expression absent even in the wake of Morgan's betrayal. I will not '_drop it'_."

As she searches his eyes, she sees only determination—and she's too tired of fighting to argue and even if she feels frighteningly vacant without the rage that had been stewing in her gut, she doesn't want it back. Taking a shaky breath, she shakes her head again, waving her hand dismissively. "He—we just had a disagreement. It was nothing."

Loki's hand shifts from her wrist to her forearm and the coolness of his grip is still apparent through the under-armor. He says, "You've spoken better lies."

She huffs a short laugh—but it's a thousand times lighter than she's felt in a while and she doesn't know why. Dropping her gaze, her mind shifts back to the memory of the confrontation with Rogers and she says, "I went to—I went to talk to him. Coulson—a while back—he asked me to look into something. Shit got crazy, so I never did." She shrugs helplessly and tries not to show how much the memory bothers her. "It—it didn't go well. Guess Rogers didn't like having the _truth_ shoved at him. He thought I was just there to pick a fight and—things got a little out of hand. It's like he thinks I'm _against_ him and—"

It's not like Rogers' accusations were unwarranted, but that didn't mean she was ready to admit that she was just as much at fault for the level of animosity that had built between them.

"Has that not always been the case?" Loki asks, like he doesn't expect differently.

"No!" At least, she didn't _think _so. She frowns, uncertain. " I—it just—he _acts_ like _I'm_ the bad guy. Like _I'm_ the one who's wronged him." The more she thinks about it, though, the more she has to wonder if she _was_ the one who'd seeded dissent when she'd seen Rogers' opinion of her begin to fall. Rather than prove him wrong, she'd worked to do the _opposite_ and things had seemed to escalate from there.

Loki's hand finds her neck again, as if to urge her out of her thoughts and turn her attention back to him. She blinks up at him and he smirks conspiratorially, "So wish him _joy_ of his delusions, and leave it be. Why linger on the matter if it only upsets you?"

She arches a brow incredulously. "This coming from _you_? _King_ of resentment?"

Loki holds his smirk. "When you deflect like this, it only tells me that there's something to hide."

Natasha rolls her eyes, "We had an _argument_, okay? Leave it."

"I _would_—if the issue were not one precluding our reconciliation," Loki says seriously. "I would not have conflict with you, yet your anger towards Rogers deafens your ears to my words."

She studies the openness of his expression and wonders how a man so manipulative and so secretive could wear his emotions so freely in his eyes. More than that, she wonders how she'd gotten to a point with Loki where it was possible they could find resolution so easily when it seemed that any attempts to make peace with Rogers had only ever resulted in making things worse for the both of them.

Sighing, she feels weary—yet there's a weight that's been lifted and the relief of something finally going _right _is more gratifying than words could describe. Eventually, she shakes her head and snorts, "Loki—we're cool. I'm a bitch. You're an ass. Just—forget I said anything. Me 'n you are cool."

He searches her eyes as if expecting to find something to give him reason to counter the statement; when he finds nothing, he nods and steps away to open the door for her.

Argument dissolved, they step out into the hall and the flood of relief that comes with him at her side makes her think that maybe she doesn't have to push _everyone_ away.

* * *

It is startling to realize that she misses the easy arrogance of Natasha's smiles and the deluge of inappropriate comments that seemed to follow in her wake. It's strange to miss the neurotic mess Natasha's recklessness often left of her, or that her biggest concern used to be whether her decision to accept Loki's presence despite his deception had been for the worst when it only seemed to encourage Natasha's careless behavior.

It takes weeks of slowly widening gap in a friendship that seems to have existed for eternity for Pepper to recognize what she'd always taken for granted—that for all Natasha's stubbornness and headstrong behavior, Pepper had always held the privileged position of being the _one person_ who could call her out on her bullshit and force her to see reason. But that door was now closed and without warning, she'd been stripped of voice, forced to watch from a distance as her friend tried to take on the problems of the world as if they were _her_ responsibility to assume.

Pepper had hoped that Rhodey might do more to help Natasha through whatever was troubling her mind, but of course the two idiots had resolved to go out and get _drunk_ instead of holding proper conversation and then Rhodey had _left_, blind to the fact that Natasha's problems were not so easily dissolved by drink.

Left with little options, Pepper decides she's desperate enough to interfere in matters she'd promised herself she'd stay out of before.

Happy texts to alert her when Natasha calls him to drive her to the Baxter Building. Pepper is already making her way up the elevator to the penthouse when she receives the message and sees it as a blessing from whatever Gods might be looking over her when the first thing she sees is Loki standing over the Tower controls near the balcony windows.

"What are you doing?" she asks, curious rather than concerned.

"Someone seems to have altered a few things," Loki replies in a murmur, clearly engrossed.

"Might've been Natasha," Pepper says as she makes her way to him.

Loki looks up, leveling her with an incredulous look. "She would not have redirected the power from the logo to the first floor lavatories."

"No. Probably not," Pepper nods, watching as he returns to the computer like he might actually know what he's doing. Barring Natasha, Pepper had thought she was the only other person who understood how to navigate through Natasha's computers. "You've learned a lot from Natasha, haven't you? You barely used to know how to use a _phone_, let alone a _computer _designed by Natasha Stark herself."

"I've learned more from JARVIS than Natasha, to be honest," Loki says, fond smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes scan over code.

She watches him work patiently, studying the calm with which he works and wondering how the hell someone like _Loki_ had fallen into their lives and burrowed so deeply into their family where _this_ was normal.

When he steps away from the computer at last, she asks before he has the chance to escape, "Are things better between the two of you?"

He seems surprised by the abruptness of the question and he looks at her, nodding as he says, "Yes. We've—we've come to understanding."

She smiles. "Good. I would have hated to have to lock you two in a room until you worked things out."

He frowns, bemused. "I—That would not have been necessary."

"I don't know," she shrugs, keeping her smile friendly; Loki can be just as perceptive as Natasha. Pepper adds with a laugh, "You're both pretty stubborn."

Loki smiles, a little uncertainly—as if he's trying to find an alternative purpose to her words. "Natasha is reasonable when she allows herself to be. One must only first learn to circumvent her pride before expecting words to hold weight."

"Guess you have that in common, don't you?"

This time, Loki does not respond, watching her guardedly, expression smoothing out but for the furrow of his brow.

Pepper allows her smile to slip then and she nods, gesturing behind her towards the sofa. "Okay—um. Sit down."

Loki frowns, hesitating before obliging. Taking a seat, he asks, "Is there a problem?"

Pepper follows, standing directly in front of him so that for once _she's_ the one towering over _him._ Loki does not seem to approve of her advantage but he remains seated. With a sigh, she says, "Look, with everything that's happened—I think I'm just going to come right out and say it."

"… Say what?"

She makes sure to look directly into her eyes when she says, "I need the _truth_."

Loki's expression gives nothing away and she has to wonder if it's because he _knows_ where she is heading with his or if it's just a defense mechanism for when caught at a disadvantage. Regardless, it doesn't matter. She doesn't mind his silence so long as it permits her to freely speak her piece.

"You and Natasha," she says—and that seems to surprise him, causing her to wonder what else he thought she might be here to discuss. Crossing her arms, she sniffs and says with a note of incredulity, "Because either you think you've got everybody fooled or you're just that _blind_—but, I've known her for too long and I know you both regrettably too well. She'll deny it and I'd sooner get a confession of brotherly _love_ from you—"

Loki stiffens but remains mute and she sighs, relaxing some of the confrontation from her shoulders.

Quietly, she says, "… But I _know_ that, despite both of your _best_ efforts, you two _care_ about each other."

Something like uncertainty flickers behind Loki's brilliant green eyes as they dart across her face, searching—and then the adorable idiot actually _averts his eyes _and Pepper can't bite back a smile because she has him right where she wants him. Loki's brow pulls in a deep pinch and she thinks she sees his chest rising and falling a little quicker with hastened breath.

When he looks back to her she's managed to contain herself a little better, smile wiped, and Loki scowls, muttering, "Natasha and I—we don't have that sort of relationship."

Another smile escapes despite her best efforts and she laughs, "Well, maybe if you did, the two of you wouldn't be one sharp comment away from biting each other's heads off."

Loki seems annoyed by the observation and his lips press to a firm line, the muscles along his jaw flexing with the clenching of his teeth. Taking pity, Pepper exhales soundlessly and drops her arms to her side, lowering herself to take a seat on the edge of the coffee table.

Carefully, she reaches forward to set a hand on his knee. "You care for her, don't you? You realize that, right?"

Loki is silent, and he seems to have resolved to hold her gaze even when the conflict is evident in his face and she thinks he might sooner bolt than sit around to listen any longer.

She offers his knee an affection squeeze and smiles kindly, murmuring, "I thought so."

It's so strange to see Loki like this—not _speechless_; rather, _unwilling_ to speak. It's an interesting contrast to Natasha, who would have been quicker to offer denial, whether or not she believed her own words.

What happened with Morgan had occurred so abruptly and without warning that it had completely uprooted their lives in all the worst ways—yet there is _one_ thing that Pepper can be grateful for as a result of that incident. She'd thought that a part of her would always feel betrayed and weary of Loki for his deception, yet when it had come down to it, Pepper had discovered in herself an unwillingness to see him go. In his absence these last few weeks, it wasn't just for concern of Natasha that she'd hoped to see him return. Disaster had a way of making one realize what was _truly_ important and Pepper had discovered a large and unspoken part of herself that _needed_ Loki in her life like she needed Natasha.

"The biggest difference between the two of you is that you _let_ yourself feel," she says after a moment. With a soft snort, she adds, "_Natasha_ thinks that if she just ignores everything and shoves it all aside—then it won't matter."

It's what she thinks will make it harder to get through to Natasha than it will with Loki.

Natasha fears taking what she thinks she might _truly_ want because she thinks it'll get in the way of whatever plans she's set in motion for herself. She's a genius who Pepper thinks _deserves_ eternity, if only because she knows all the _good_ Natasha could accomplish if given the time. And it must be _frustrating_ for someone with a mind like that to know they're working with a deadline—have been handed a finite amount of years to create and accomplish and _dream—_and so Natasha sets aside personal desire barring instant gratification so that the path she has paved for her future will remain unimpeded.

But Loki …

Loki is a _God_.

Life isn't a limitation for him in the same way it is for _them_. He doesn't _have_ to have responsibilities. He can live as flippantly as he wants—after all, he _has_ eternity. He doesn't need to suppress his desires or set aside wants and that's part of what makes him so _dangerous_. Loki is selfish and he takes without precaution and when he is hurt he lashes out and takes some _more_ because he doesn't know what it is to be mortal—to only have _so much_ because the world and the universe is far too vast and impossible for comprehension. He doesn't _know_ what it's like to be human—to be given less than a century of life and know that he can never have all that his heart might desire.

Pepper drops her gaze when she feels tears prickle her eyes as emotion swells in her chest because it's the_ worst pain in the world_ to watch someone you love endure unnecessary misery because they think it's what they _deserve _and she'll be _damned_ if she lets Natasha play the martyr and fall into something terrible and dark because of _good intentions._

"You don't have to admit it," Pepper says when she's certain her voice won't waver. Breathing carefully and blinking back tears, she laughs humorlessly and looks up to see Loki is watching her with a wary frown. Summoning strength, she says, "You don't even have to _say_ it—because _Lord_ knows _she_ never will—but she needs you and _I_ need you. So if you're going to be _here,_ with _us_—then you have to _be_ here, _with_ us."

A smile breaks free, splitting across her face with every ounce of emotion and affection she held for both Natasha and Loki and it's almost overwhelmingly intense. Leaning forward, she removes her hand from his knee and brings it to rest against his cheek.

Watery eyed, she laughs again and says, "Like it or not, you're _family,_ Loki. I love you and Happy loves you and we _want_ you here." At Loki's quietly stunned look, she pats his cheek affectionately and adds seriously, "This is your _home_."

* * *

The cell in which they keep the Black Knight is heavily guarded and though Amora is not a woman who abides failure, she is also not someone who takes insult lightly and Loki's actions would cost him. If he'd thought she would be deterred by his charming attempts at intimidation he was _wrong. _That he underestimated her was something she'd always known, but she'd ignored it in favor of disinterest and the more pressing matter of her affections for Thor. Where the Black Knight had failed before, she would only have to ensure it could not happen again.

To enter the Midgardian facility undetected and adopt a form that the Knight will respond to is a simple matter.

As her altered form takes shape before the man, he immediately steps forward, eyes widened in expectation.

"You—"

"Lower your voice," she reprimands him harshly, taking satisfaction in the way he flinches at her words.

Nodding, the Knight steps closer and whispers, "How can you be here?"

She smiles. "I will not abandon you, Nathan. You have failed this time, but opportunity is not all lost."

Bowing his head, shame colors the man's words—and it's a far cry from the drunken vitriol he'd once spouted in her direction.

"Sir Percy—I am at your command. I will not fail you again."

* * *

Natasha has only just settled herself on the sofa with tablet and wine in either hand after what has felt like an _incredibly_ long day when Pepper appears without a sound and Natasha nearly drops her wine glass as she moves to take a sip. Heart stuttering in fright, Natasha jolts forward to barely spare her sofa its demise by red wine. "Holy mother of—_Pepper_!"

Dressed in a very flattering burgundy dress, black coat draped over her arm and hair hanging loose around her shoulders, Pepper offers no apology or explanation as her eyes scan the room. "Where's Loki?"

Setting the wine glass on the coffee table, Natasha sets her tablet aside and frowns. "Uh—I … dunno? Out? I sent him to get take-out because he seemed to be in a bit of a _mood_." Scrunching her nose in thought, she adds, "I'm not actually sure he went to get it, to be honest. Which will suck because I'm pretty hungry."

Pepper meets her eyes then, lips quirked in wry amusement. "Only _you_ would send out a God to pick up your food."

Natasha sniffs, "You know, that used to be his _job_."

"So you two are okay?" Pepper asks casually.

"Yeah. We're good." Natasha says with a laugh. "I yelled at him. He yelled at me. It was all very Dr. Phil meets Jerry Springer. I feel much better."

Pepper gives levels her with a questioning look to which Natasha responds with a grin. "That's good—I think."

Natasha grabs her tablet, expecting Pepper to leave as it is obvious she is prepared to go out on a date. Instead, the other woman moves to join her, taking a seat on the couch across from Natasha. Already, this feels like some sort of set up.

Suspiciously, Natasha peers up at Pepper and frowns. " … Problem?"

Perfectly poised, Pepper folds her coat over her lap and says, "We need to talk. It's about Loki."

Eyes narrowing, Natasha asks dubiously, "If it's about _Loki_, why don't you _talk_ to Loki?"

The completely no-nonsense look on Pepper's face is starting to make Natasha twitchy. Instincts are telling her to run but pride holds her in place and Pepper replies, far too flippantly, "Because it's also about _you_. What are you going to do about Loki?"

Effectively caught off guard, Natasha blinks, "I don't …" She shakes her head to clear her confusion and tries to remember if there was a step she'd missed in the conversation because something didn't seem to add up. "Was there something I was _supposed_ to do?"

Unwaveringly composed, Pepper says, "A year ago, it was everything I could do to keep you from sexually assaulting Lucas Olson."

Natasha sits back, stunned, tablet forgotten on her lap. "Wow, that—I _really_ wasn't expecting those to be the words out of your mouth. _Random_."

Pepper shrugs. "Not _that_ random."

She can remember sitting here with Pepper, sharing champagne in celebration of the Tower's completion, and Pepper similarly attempting to broach a subject Natasha had no interest allow someone to pry into. Looking at Pepper now, there's a determination she didn't have then and it's a little daunting.

Grimacing, Natasha mutters, "What are the chances of us _not_ talking about this right now? Or—_ever_?"

Without missing a beat, Pepper says, "About _twelve_ percent."

Natasha stares. "Wow. _Really_? You need to learn to let things _go_, Pep."

"Answer my question."

Natasha rolls her eyes, scowling, "You didn't _ask_ a question. You made a _statement_." She wishes she'd been a little more prepared for this confrontation but Pepper wasn't wasting any time beating around the bush and it was making it difficult to construct a defensive strategy. "A _year ago_, Lucas Olson was _Lucas Olson_. That was different."

"So you're not attracted to Loki?"

Natasha balks. "Of course I'm attracted to Loki. I'm not _dead_." Pepper watches her expectantly and Natasha groans. "Just—it's _different_. It's different with Loki." The thought of elaborating more makes her want to curl into herself and Natasha's expression crumples into one of disgust. "Do we _really_ have to talk about this?"

"Yes. We do."

"_Why_?" She knows she's all but whining but this was territory she did _not _want to venture into. Scowling, she adds desperately, "And what brought this on? Seriously, a few weeks ago you couldn't _stand_ the guy. Now you're asking me why I haven't _banged_ him? What the _hell_?"

It takes her a moment to realizes that she is dealing with Pepper, the _CEO,_ not Pepper her friend—and suddenly any hopes of abandoning this conversation were rapidly dashed. Showing her first inclination of emotion, Pepper's lips twitch downward in annoyance.

"Because—for _whatever_ stupid reason—you have decided you're going to push everyone away," Pepper says, volume rising—until she seems to relent and her passive expression melts into an exasperated scowl. "Me, Happy—even _Rhodey_? You're pushing everyone away and I know _exactly_ why you're doing it but I'm not going to fight with you about this anymore because if you're too damn _stubborn_ to listen, then I just can't be bothered to _care_. But I'm still your friend and I still love you and for some _insane_ reason, you and Loki found each other and you _work_."

Natasha frowns—doesn't know why she can't seem to will herself to get up and walk away—and grunts, "Do we have to do this right now? I haven't been beaten and yelled at _enough_ today?"

Pepper ignores her, easily recognizing the deflection. She's on the offensive and she's been working with Natasha for too long that she would be so easily diverted from her path. Natasha braces herself and Pepper gestures at the tablet in Natasha's hands as she says, "You've thrown yourself into half a dozen different things because you think that by keeping yourself busy you don't have to think about Morgan and what he did to you—what he _tried_ to do to you. You've become _obsessed_ with fixing all the world's problems when the truth is—they're not _yours_ to _fix_. If there are more bad guys out there with new super powers—that's _not your fault_. For some _dumbass_ reason, though, you seem to think it _is_ and since you won't listen to _me_, I can only think of one other person you'll listen to."

Natasha snorts, incredulous, "And you think that's _Loki?"_

"I _know_ that's Loki."

Sitting forward, Natasha shakes her head and tries to reason her way out of this. "Look—Loki and I—we work fine just the way we are. We don't—"

"You do. I'm not saying you don't," Pepper says earnestly. "But you could have _so much_ _more_."

"It—that—" Natasha runs a hand through her hair in frustration when words fail her. She should be able to come up with a hundred different excuses, but not a single one of them seems willing to step up to the plate and she settles for honesty because it's the only other option _left. _Natasha sighs, bowing her head, and mutters, _"_Pepper, I _can't_. This is different. Loki isn't Olson and—I can't just _sleep_ with Loki and I don't know how to be in a _relationship_, so—"

Even the _word_ is foreign and it makes her stomach twist unpleasantly.

"What do you think it is you _have_ with Loki?" Pepper demands. "Because you're certainly more than _friends_—or whatever other bullshit thing you have to call yourselves—"

"I don't _do_ relationships, Pepper!" Natasha snaps suddenly—then, reining herself in, she says, "I just _don't_—so _drop_ it."

But Pepper can be merciless when she wants to be—she learned from the _best—_and Natasha finds that's she powerless in the face of Pepper's absolute determination.

"The _only_ reason you won't accept the fact that you _are_ in a relationship," Pepper says, "Is because it would challenge the well-established opinion you've created for yourself that you don't care about any other person _but_ yourself. You don't want to take the chance that—beyond your appearance and your name—nobody would want you for _you_ so you go after guys you know are only interested in one thing and you get exactly what you want from them—which is, in fact, _nothing_. All this so you don't have to care because caring means taking a chance and that's the _one_ thing you _won't_ take a chance on."

Natasha allows silence to be her response because her mind and her mouth have been rendered _useless_. She doesn't know what to _feel_ or what to _think_—wishes she could deafen herself and spare herself the torment because there are certain things she hasn't allowed herself to dwell on and Pepper doesn't _understand—_

"You like him."

Natasha looks up sharply, a denial on her tongue—but Pepper's certain look robs her of the ability for speech and she averts her eyes in frustration, scowl darkening her expression.

"It's alright to admit it," Pepper says quietly. "You like him. The reason you can't just fall into bed with him is because for _once_ in your _life_, you actually value someone for what they have to offer you _beyond_ sex."

Rolling her eyes, Natasha sneers, "Okay—I valued _Rhodey_."

"That was different. You were drunk and trying to prove a point. And it was only the one time before you came to your senses—thank _God_. You care about Loki in a different way—"

"Okay, okay—_stop_!" Natasha stands abruptly, feeling something like panic in her gut urging her to flee. Pepper stands with her and Natasha glares. "I don't _care_ about Loki. Not like _that. _He's hot—But, I mean, I don't—"

The expression on Pepper's face is sympathetic—but Natasha has no idea what there is to be sympathetic _about. _"You have been criticizing and doubting yourself for _years_ and that hasn't really worked out for you. Why don't you try _trusting_ yourself for once and giving him a shot? Try being _happy._"

"I'm happy," Natasha says automatically—stubbornly. Pepper gives her an incredulous look and Natasha rolls her eyes, amending, "I'm happy _enough_."

Pepper smiles, stepping closer and reaching out to take her hand. "He gets you—and you get him. That's all there is to it. That's all there is to liking someone. I'm not saying you're in love with him, I'm saying that you _care_ about him. You care enough that you don't want to risk losing your friendship by ruining it with your … _usual_ methods of wooing."

Relaxing by a fraction, Natasha grumbles, "My 'usual methods of wooing'?"

"Yes."

Sighing, Natasha really knows better than to argue. Begrudgingly, she takes a seat and Pepper sits next to her, hands still clasped.

"I don't know why you're trying to deny it, Natasha. You're not an idiot. Why are you pretending that you don't feel anything for him when it's clear to everyone else that you _do_?"

Throwing herself back against the couch, Natasha groans, "Because I _don't_. Like you said—I get along with him. He's alright. I get along with _Bruce_, too, but I'm in no hurry to jump _his_ bones."

Pepper waits until Natasha peers down at her before saying simply, "All I heard was: I like Loki. I want to jump his bones."

Natasha would laugh in any other situation—but this is actually not fucking funny at _all_. She'd reached an agreement today with Loki and that had been _great_, but what Pepper was proposing was something _completely_ different and _certainly_ not something that was up for consideration.

Pepper continues, "Seriously—you and Loki have a lot more in common than I think you realize. Beyond just your oversized egos, flare for dramatics and those stupidly genius brains of yours—"

"That's an oxymoron," Natasha says, just to be contrary.

"I _know_, moron," Pepper replies, unimpressed.

Scowling, Natasha extracts her hand from Pepper's and brings it to scrub over her face in aggravation. "I don't see how we're alike. _I_ never tried to take out _my_ daddy issues on another _planet_."

"Seriously?" Pepper sounds like she's trying hard to restrain a laugh and Natasha pulls her hand away and glares. Incredulously, Pepper shakes her head. "I'm not even going to _go_ there. But should I remind you—when you first took up the suit? When I came home to find you riddled with bullets? Remember _that_?"

Natasha frowns. "That was—"

"That was _you_ thinking you knew what was best for an entirely different group of people."

"That's not fair. Those people—"

"Could have been killed, yes. Were being oppressed, yes," Pepper says, holding her gaze seriously. "But there were a _hundred_ different ways that situation could have been resolved—ways that didn't involve you marching in their like some avenging _God_. And don't try to tell me part of it wasn't for revenge—because I'm not an _idiot_."

"I didn't say—"

Pepper glares. "I'm not done. I'm trying to make a point here."

Snorting, Natasha rolls her eyes, "_My_ bad. Go right ahead, Your _Excellency_."

"Don't get sassy. I'm trying to help you here."

At this, Natasha scoffs, sitting up abruptly, "_How_? You're comparing my actions to those of a guy who, for all intents and purposes, was bent on taking over the _world_!"

Patiently, Pepper says, "I'm not making excuses for him, but look at it from _his_ perspective. When anyone looks at us, what must we seem like? Constantly at war with one another—watching our children and elders starve in third-world countries while others engorge themselves in luxury. Loki looked at us and judged us and he thought: 'I can make this better. I can fix this'."

"Which he had no right—"

"And did _you_ have any right to jump in, guns blazing, and involve yourself in the affairs of another country?"

"That's different! I was _protecting_—"

"And who's to say Loki didn't think he was protecting _us_? From the Other. From Thanos. From _ourselves_."

Natasha stares—thinks maybe she's hallucinating again because _what the hell was Pepper saying? _"I can't believe your making this argument to me. You don't _know_ him. There's more to it than that. _He_ brought the Chitauri to us. That was _him._ He wanted to _enslave _humanity. It doesn't _matter_ that he had a change of heart, he—"

Pepper shakes her head. "Whatever his motivations—everyone is always going to think they know what's best. They're always going to make mistakes. And there's always going to be someone else who looks at _you_ and sees _you_ as the bad guy. There are no sides. There are only actions and consequences. It's not about intentions—it's not about _anything_. You just need to decide on the kind of person _you_ want to be and _be_ it. You, nor I, nor anyone else is better than Loki. We've all made mistakes."

She feels horrified and _shocked_—forgets that _she_ had been the first to look past Loki's transgressions for the sake of the bigger picture because she was _Natasha_ and her decisions were always questionable at _best_, but this was _Pepper_ and Pepper _knows_ better so—

Tearing herself away from that line of thought, Natasha scowls and mutters, "_Some_ mistakes are bigger than others."

"You're right. Some are," Pepper sighs. "Loki screwed up—but so have you. And pretty badly, if I recall—and on numerous occasions. So have Bruce and Steve and Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff. You want to ask _them_ how _they_ feel about it?"

Natasha scowls.

This wasn't fair.

This wasn't a fair argument. Pepper didn't understand that Loki's character was as multifaceted as the machines Natasha constructed, far beyond normal comprehension. She'd never had to _fight_ him and scheme _alongside_ him while at the same time preparing for the inevitability of betrayal.

"Look," Pepper says, drawing her from her thoughts. "All I'm saying is that the two of you are similar where it _counts_. You can understand each other better. You _complement_ each other."

Sometimes snaps in her and, angrily, Natasha demands, "Just a few days ago you were dead set against him? What the fuck _changed_?"

Unfazed, Pepper replies, "My problems with Loki are my own. They're between him and I and will be resolved when I decide to forgive him for being a liar and an asshole." She says this with an oddly fond smile that's disproportionate to her words.

Natasha's calms, eyes narrowing in disbelief, "_This_ is the guy you want me to hook up with?"

Pepper smiles. "You're a bit of a liar and a bit of an asshole yourself."

Natasha shakes her head and growls in frustration, doubling over and burying her face in her hands.

Pepper was a romantic. She believed in love and happy endings and she _deserved_ that but Pepper's life and Natasha's were on a _completely_ different level. Natasha has never _believed_ in romance. At least, not the _real_ kind—the kind that Pepper seemed to think everyone was entitled to. Romance is a fabrication—it's strategic and a marketing of events to ensure you get to the _grand_ _prize_. She doesn't believe in romance and she doesn't believe in love at first sight. There is no fate. You don't get to magically meet someone's eye across the room and just _know_.

Real life is complicated.

It's messy and full of unwanted drama.

And even _if _she might want something like that ...

The idea of depending on someone she doesn't even _have_ to make her happy is too terrifying and she wishes Pepper had never brought the matter _up_ because Natasha doesn't _need_ these ideas taking seed and corrupting her thoughts.

Unbidden, her mouth says, " … I don't _know_ if I can do it."

Pepper sighs, setting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Nothing has to _change_. You'll still be you and Loki will still be Loki. The difference is something you can only _feel_—and as scary as that might be, it's _worth_ it. I promise."

Kindly, Pepper allows her time to mull in silence and doesn't press the matter further. Unfortunately, Natasha isn't given much time before the quiet jolt of the elevator's arrival draws both Natasha and Pepper's attention. They twist in unison to look over the couch where, unsurprisingly, Natasha sees Loki enter as if _summoned_, large paper take-out bag under one arm. Given the man's tendency to come and go at the whim of an eye blink, Natasha finds it odd that he would go through the trouble of taking the elevator in the first place—her concern growing when, rather than a greeting, he instead stops to stare when his eyes fall upon Pepper, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Loki's expression is carefully vague, but his brow is heavily drawn in thought. The way he and Pepper stare at each other without exchanging a word makes her stomach twist uncomfortably with the thought that perhaps Pepper had deigned to speak to Loki as well. The idea of it is both mortifying and highly infuriating.

Eventually, Loki averts his eyes and he shrugs out of his outerwear, shuffling the take-out bag between his arms as he extracts himself from the heavy peacoat. Clearing her throat, Pepper stands, murmuring a quiet, "Well, I should get going."

As she steps past Loki with a smile and a nod to enter the elevator, Loki doesn't once look up to acknowledge her, gaze neutrally regarding the trimming on the wall to his right.

Strangely subdued, Loki waits until the elevator doors have closed before making his way to her. Natasha watches him the entire time, fascinated by this calm and quiet side of him.

"Uh—hi," she mutters—and her voice too quiet and too awkward and she immediately wants to cringe away from herself and abandon whatever haphazard plans they'd made for the night because—_fucking Pepper_ just had to ruin _everything!_

"Hi," Loki murmurs, setting down the bag on the coffee table in front of her. He stares at it for a long moment, as if in a trance, and Natasha continues to watch his face, worry gnawing at her gut.

Then, quietly, Loki takes a seat next to her. Neither one of them reach for the food and Natasha finds herself staring out the balcony windows, something like dread and shock numbing every muscle of her body. Beside her, Loki stares at the coffee table contemplatively and no other words are exchanged.

The conversation with Pepper still echoing in her head, there's only one other thought Natasha can make out that's clearer above the rest:

_Fuck._

* * *

**End Notes:**

I love Pepper. Love her in the comics and even though I'm ambivalent towards Gwyneth Paltrow as a person, I like the way she plays Pepper in the movies.

I also have to comment that Loki and Natasha's duality is so fascinating to play out. They are like two different people conducting all these secretive little things on the side.

Anyway, I just have some meta to throw at you guys because as I write, I sometimes come across points where I strongly consider utilizing the whole jealousy thing just to tease the growing relationship between Natasha and Loki, but I always hold back and here's why:

Jealousy is something that Loki and Natasha would handle very uniquely (similar between themselves, but unlike anyone else) in my mind. They're possessive people who don't care to share what they believe is theirs; however, they do not feel the sort of jealousy born out of insecurity and doubt.

Their jealousy is very petty, grown from arrogance and self-entitlement. You've seen this with Tony in the films with Rhodey and Pepper (and even Loki, in the Avengers). Loki, likewise, in the movies and comics seems to grow jealous whenever his adoptive parents showed the slightest bit of encouragement towards Thor (though, to be fair, Thor is a glory hog and everyone sort of plays along). However, Loki also has displayed jealousy towards Thor's _friends_, especially Sif, when he believed she was turning Thor's attention away from Loki (and then Loki infamously chopped off her lovely hair as revenge).

They love attention and crave affection and would have it solely directed towards themselves, to be shared with no one else. It's not healthy, but they're not exactly the paragons of mental stability. Also, despite these jealous tendencies, Loki and Stark are very prideful people. They completely expect they _deserve_ the attention they crave (though I still feel there lies a sliver of doubt within them both born of childhoods filled with neglect). Loki and Stark would never get jealous of either one obtaining or pursuing the attention of another—at least, not jealous because of an insecurity that they may lose the other because of straying affection.

Neither Loki nor Stark are in denial of their attraction for the other—but they _are_ reluctant to pursue it for their own unique reasons. However, when they _do_ come together, I can't imagine an instance where Loki might be jealous of Steve or Bruce's attention (for example), or Natasha being jealous of whatever girl takes a look at Loki and falls head-over-heals (because, come on, he's gorgeous). Part of it is that they understand each other's character so well at this point (partly because they're so alike) that there is never room for much doubt (_much_ because both are also always going to have something up their sleeve and they know this, too).


	13. The World is too Heavy

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Coming to terms.

* * *

Chapter Twelve:

_The World is too Heavy (Come Take the Weight Off Me Now)_

Mr. Fantastic's elasticity provides needed protection when their masked adversary releases a full-body wave of electricity. Arms stretched out several yards ahead of himself, Reed holds the criminal in place by winding his arms about the man's body in a vice, allowing the Thing to administer a final blow to knock the criminal unconscious. Almost immediately, Natasha receives directions across her HUD from S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ ordering her to deliver the criminal to awaiting law enforcement where he could be dispatched to the only facility currently available to house a super.

As Reed releases the man from his arms, he flings him with ease across the street; Natasha catches the man by the scruff of his neck and then maneuvers him so that he is slumped over her arm like a sack of flour, cringing in distaste as she takes in the form-fitting green suit the man is wearing. It's made of a material not unlike the Captain's uniform. Instead of the stars-and-stripes, however, this uniform features bright yellow jagged streaks down the man's flanks in the style of lightning. Fitting, given the man's ability.

If nothing else, Natasha is ceaselessly amazed by the creativity that goes into the costumes these new super-powered criminals have come up with. She is _less_ impressed by the significant increase in criminal activity in these passing weeks_,_ which has resulted in herself and the heroes on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s payroll to accept aid from vigilantes and even self-purported _explorers _like the Fantastic Four. It's a horrifying _embarrassment_ of a mess, but she knows that between herself and Fury, they're doing the best they can under the circumstances just to keep _up_ with each new mask that takes to the streets in pursuit of attracting the attentions of the city's well-publicized heroes.

Another message pops up on her HUD and she declares, "Super, not mutant."

"That's a relief. Those kids have enough to deal with." Turning away from his family, Reed makes his way to her while the Thing and Invisible Woman wait patiently by their transport.

"I just got a hit on the mask. This guy's been arrested before. Maxwell Dillon." She opens the file attached to the message to see it provide additional details on the man. "He claims he got his powers when he was struck by lightning while working with power lines still connected to their spool."

Reed frowns, clearly as skeptical to believe in the likelihood of such a story. "People don't just get _powers_ by being struck by lightning. Even if the high-tension wires induced a body-wide mutagenic change to his nervous system, the probability is less than point-zero-zero-four percent."

"Not so farfetched a theory _now_, is it?" When she had suggested the possibility that someone could be behind the surplus of supers, Reed had dismissed her ideas as paranoia resulting from the crime-fighting lifestyle she led. She can see that doubt give way to interest now and grins. "There's a probability that—_genetically_—some people are predisposed to the possibility of acquiring powers. If that's the case, then there's also the chance that someone—who has come to the same conclusion as I have—could be manufacturing these incidents and profiting from the new wave of inexperienced supers by supplying them with the money for the _suits_ and these bizarre little _gadgets_ they all seem to have."

"You think someone is _making_ the supers and _sponsoring_ them?" Reed blinks, startled.

"That's _exactly_ what I think."

Reed seems to consider this, frown deepening. "But how can you prove it?"

Natasha sighs because—therein lies the problem. "I can't. Yet. So far, there's nothing _linking_ these guys. It's not just New York. Supers are appearing all _over_ the country—all over the _world. _Whatever this is, it's _huge._"

Reed looks conflicted and she knows that it's a result of his reluctance to paint the Fantastic Four as soldiers. It's one of their many differences, but one she can still respect. After all, Reed didn't have the blood of generations staining his hands.

After a moment, his eyes widen as if in realization and he studies her before asking, "Is that why you're mentoring the boy?"

She doesn't bother pretending not to know who he's talking about. "I'll take help where I can get it. The kid's already proven to be a _genius._ He shares his father's interest in genetics."

Reed's brow furrows, disapproval clear in his tone. "He's a _boy."_

"He's a _Parker."_

"You're friends with Doctor Banner and you work with Doctor Pym. Surely—"

"Bruce has plenty on his plate already without me adding more to it," Natasha counters. "And if it turns out I need Pym's help, I know where to find him. Right now, however, I know of two brilliant geneticists who can help me determine if such a predisposition _exists_."

"Two?"

"Maya Hansen. She's an old colleague of mine."

"I haven't heard of her," Reed admits, shaking his head.

Natasha isn't surprised and she doesn't elaborate. Reed needs very few pieces to see the completed puzzle and she doesn't want him looking into her work with Maya before it has been seen to completion. The less she gives him to be curious about, the less inclined he'll be to look into it. Reed is a very self-absorbed man—it takes quite a bit to distract him from his personal work—but he also adheres to a very strict code of morality that doesn't always coincide with hers.

Suddenly, a now very familiar voice calls down from overhead: "Aw—did I miss the party?"

The young vigilante drops beside her and Iron Woman's mask conceals the exasperated look the flutters across her expression as she withholds a sigh. Beside her, Reed starts and asks, "Spiderman?"

Natasha frowns, immediately curious. Looking between the two, she asks, "You guys know each other?"

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Spiderman replies, with a note of reluctance, "Yeah. I tried to join their team a while back. Totally got the run-around. Talk about _humiliating_."

"Now, Spiderman," Reed chastises, "You know that was because, at the time, you were considered a vigilante and a _fugitive_."

Natasha snorts. "He's _still_ a vigilante."

"I'm still a vigilante," Spiderman replies simultaneously. Pumping a fist into the air, he shouts, "Fight the power! Whu-whut!"

Natasha physically recoils from second-hand embarrassment. "Stop."

Leaning closer, Spiderman asks, "Not good?"

Natasha shakes her head. "Not good."

Spiderman proceeds to sulk for a full second before his ever-fluctuating attention turns to the criminal draped over Iron Woman's arm. "Oh—whoa! Hey! Is that Electro?"

Looking to Dillon, Natasha frowns. "Electro?"

Why was it that every new hotshot felt the need to give themselves some ridiculous name? She was beginning to wonder if she'd started something terrible when she'd come out to the world, declaring herself as Iron Woman—but then she remembers that the government and her father had started it nearly seventy years ago with Rogers.

Turning to Reed, Natasha offers him a nod and says, "I can take it from here if you three would like to head back home."

"Much appreciated, Iron Woman," Reed says with a polite smile. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow."

Reed returns to his wife and friend and the three take to their transport, a slender vehicle of Reed's design, built to seat four and branded with the team's insignia across its hood. Natasha grimaces in distaste as it lifts to a hover and angles into the sky, speeding off in the direction of the Baxter Building.

Beside her, Spiderman is still regarding Electro. "I've fought him before. I thought the local law enforcement had taken care of it."

Natasha rolls her eyes, dropping her faceplate at last and muttering, "Local law enforcement can't do much against _super_-criminals_._"

Spiderman's head turns to her, expressive tone compensating for the total lack of facial cues to go off of. "Well, you told me to stay away from _S.H.I.E.L.D, _so—"

There's a note of petulance in his words and Natasha reaches out with her free hand to grasp his shoulder, looking directly into the reflective eyes of his mask and speaking earnestly, "That's right. I did. Not all of these guys are so easy to handle. Captain and I have been doing this for a lot longer than any of you. As noble as this work might seem, it attracts enemies—the vengeful sort who will stop at nothing to destroy you. Do you have a Stark phone?"

Spiderman is thrown by the abrupt question and she drops her hand, reaching under a panel of her chest armor to produce a small chip, then a side compartment along her thigh to produce a phone the ass-hates on her company board had sent her (with the note that the phone would be marketed as the Stark _Beam-_01, abandoning the trademark name she'd long established).

Setting aside her annoyance of this, she hands both to Spiderman and explains, "Here. Take this one. Plug _this_ into the Zip-Sat port and it'll do the rest on its own. It's programmed to link to JARVIS, who will connect you to me at any time. Next time you're in trouble, _call_ me."

She can't resist grinning as he accepts the phone into his hands with eagerness, declaring, "Whoa! I get a hotline to Iron Woman? Totally rad!"

* * *

Over the next several weeks, the pattern remains much the same. Juggling her duties between Natasha Stark and Iron Woman is difficult, but she manages. The benefit of working with men like Bruce, Reed and Pym is that they're _far_ from useless. Though she and Pym still hold grudge over the incident with the Black Knight and his determination to remain involved outside of the lab, they make tremendous progress in their efforts to understand the Hulk's DNA. Her work with Reed is almost as gratifying and certainly less strenuous without the cloud of anxiety overhead, knowing that the life and health of a dear friend was dependent on success. As Iron Woman, S.H.I.E.L.D. manages to effectively keep the streets from completely overflowing with criminals, saving the more troublesome opponents for Natasha or Captain America—even Hawkeye and the Black Widow, when they aren't busy across the world tearing down regimes.

There aren't many occasions during which she and the Captain find themselves working closely together—and while she has mostly been relieved of petulant anger, what remains is shame and still-wounded pride. She can't decide whether to approach the Captain and attempt to clear the air or just walk away from the situation completely and move on. Ignoring the man's existence is harder than it should be—they had no loyalties to each other beyond a common interest to protect the city and serve their country, yet removing him from thought completely proves impossible.

It doesn't help that Spiderman has taken to showing up, unannounced, and interfering with her patrols and often going on at length about whatever super he and the Captain had tackled earlier in the week.

Presently, Spiderman is describing his encounter with one of many colorfully costumed criminals while Natasha, not particularly invested in the kid's story, scans their recent captive, analyzing prints and obtaining a small tissue sample by pressing the pad of Iron Woman's thumb to the man's palm. The growing list of supers in the city was worrying—but only reminded her that there were more beyond New York, running unchecked without a local hero to impede them.

"Hey!" she calls out to Spiderman as she casts a final look over the unconscious criminal. "Get over here and help me tie this guy up. I'll have him delivered to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Spiderman does as told, promptly weaving a cocoon around the captive. "Hey, is it just me or do there seem to be a lot more of these guys creepin' the streets?"

As she watches the kid work, she surreptitiously analyzes the modified thread as Spiderman manipulates it expertly. Idly, she says, "It's not just you. It seems like there's some new guy poppin' up _every_ day_._"

"Yeah," Spiderman chuckles. "Even the _Fantastic Four_ are getting involved."

Natasha hums in agreement, though the sound vibrates strangely through Iron Woman's audio harmonizer. Recalling the encounter with Electro, it's only now that it occurs to Natasha to ask: "Hey—why have you never mentioned that you tried joining the Fantastic Four?"

Wiping his hands with the completion of the cocoon for their yet unnamed criminal, Spiderman shrugs. "In all the weeks of my comin' out to _save_ your hide—"

Natasha snorts, unable to withhold an automatic grin at the haughty tone. "Don't get too full of yourself, you little sh—"

"—it's never really come up."

Natasha glares ineffectually from behind her faceplate and grunts after a moment, "You're a little shit."

She can just _imagine_ the cheeky grin that must be under that mask. Flippantly, Spiderman dismisses her words and replies, "So you say. The Cap seems to like me enough, though. So I'd say I'm doin' good."

She almost longs for the days when hero-worship had stripped his clever tongue of sharp wit.

* * *

After a brief tour to the S.H.I.E.L.D. naval base charged with transporting supers to Ryker's Island, Natasha returns to the Tower to find Loki awaiting at the landing pad, unflinching even as she drops heavily upon the pressure plate that immediately activates the winding rings and mechanical arms a mere foot away from him. The heavy Asgardian armor and cloak indicates involvement in matters beyond Earth, but no rarely have his excursions stolen him away for longer than a few days so she's not particularly concerned.

"What are you smiling about?" he asks by way of greeting.

She only then realizes she is still grinning to herself with memory of Spiderman saucy wit, but with faceplate in place, the grin dissolves to a puzzled frown as she wonders how Loki could know her expression even with the barrier of steel.

"How can you even tell I'm smiling?" she asks as she begins to make her way towards the penthouse, Loki following behind, careful to steer clear of the spinning rims.

"Because I know you," he replies—and it takes everything in her power not to dwell on the simple statement, Pepper's words of weeks past having burrowed deeply in her chest in a pit that was hungry to claim anything that could perhaps prove the other woman correct.

Divested of armor, Natasha turns on her heel at the end of the ramp to face Loki as he side-steps the rims as they ride their track back to the landing pad to slot back into place around the pressure plate.

"Well, it was nothing," she says, ignoring the thrill to see his familiar smile already set across his lips as if reserved for her. She finds herself smiling in response. "Just Spiderman."

Loki snorts, a flicker of irritation crossing his eyes at the mention of the wall-crawler. "How is it that he always seems to find you in battle?"

"Kid's smart," Natasha replies, quick to defend the kid she's begun to grow fond of. If nothing else, he made for good amusement while dealing with the shits they had to deal with on an almost daily basis. Contemplatively, she adds, "I think he figured out how to reverse the GPS on the phone I gave him."

Loki sneers, though his annoyance is not directed towards her, "He's _tracking_ you?"

"Seems like it," she says with a dismissive shrug, hoping to turn his thoughts away from the kid lest it lead to an argument. "I'd do something about it, but I don't really mind the help."

Loki looks doubtful but Natasha merely grins, turning to lead them into the penthouse; left in only her under-armor, she was not completely shielded from the growing bite to the early morning air.

Quickly falling into step beside her, Loki mutters, "So long as he doesn't get you _killed_."

Her grin widens for a second at that—before she's forced to bite back on it completely in reprisal. She's not sure when her face had taken leave of its senses, but it seemed intent to disobey her at every turn, reacting to Loki's mere _presence._

"So, what are you doing here?" she asks with sobered expression, unsurprised when Loki follows her down the hall and into her bedroom.

Claiming an edge of the bed, Loki sits while Natasha disappears into her closet to fish something to wear. "I've only just arrived," he answers.

"Visit any new galaxies?" Natasha calls from the walk-in closet. Rifling through her wardrobe, she tries to consider what the rest of her day will entail and selects accordingly: band t-shirt and skinny jeans.

"Yes," is Loki's noncommittal response.

"Take pictures?" Natasha asks as she moves into a blindspot and begins undressing.

"Next time."

As she changes into her day clothes, she keeps up idle chat if only because she has a new reason to loath silence between them. Where before it had been a manifestation of phobia born of a compilation of things, now the silence instilled a completely different sort of anxiety in her, allowing Pepper's treacherous words to spring forth and encourage thoughts she's spent these last several weeks tirelessly crushing. Loki's absences are no longer so frequent, yet his presence ever at her side makes her all the more conscious of the times when he lulls into deep thought—clearly weighing heavy words likely issued from Pepper herself.

And Natasha can't be mad at Pepper. She can't even retain the frigid distance between them because with words _alone_ Pepper had found a way to cut past Natasha's defenses, destroying whatever semblance of routine had been established between Natasha and Loki and now every effort is being spent just trying to pretend nothing had _changed_. Loki seems to be of the same mind and though she's almost completely certain Pepper had approached him as she'd approached Natasha, he allows them to ignore unspoken words hung precariously between them.

When she's changed, Loki has shifted into his usual suit, scarf and coat ensemble. He's pulled from his thoughts as she emerges from the walk-in and she sees the now familiar disgruntled look fade, smoothing his brow and softening his mouth. He's sitting forward, elbows on knees and fingers twined together in a loose steeple. Dangling from his fingers, beneath the arch of his joined hands, is a doubled gold chain; hanging by the slack is a quarter-sized golden cube, carefully engraved with Nordic swirls and overlapping designs.

Fixated by the odd necklace, Natasha feels strangely intrigued. Then, in a languid motion, Loki extends a hand to hold out the necklace.

"Yours," he explains inelegantly.

Natasha doesn't think twice about plucking the necklace from his hand by the decorative cube, even as she mutters, "And I didn't get _you_ anything."

Carefully, she traces a thumb across the engraved faces, twisting the cube between her fingers to study its every nuance.

Loki stands from the bed and steps close, reaching fingers to press thumb and forefinger to opposite sides of the cube. Something clicks and the cube reveals a seam; as she removes the bottom half, a glossy yellow stone tumbles from within. Loki captures the stone in his hand before it hits the ground, depositing it back into her palm as she asks, "What is this?"

His eyes on the stone, Loki replies, "The necklace offers good fortune. It is an Asgardian relic from our time among men, crafted by Midgardian hands."

Brow furrowing, she admires the design of the necklace and the cube and wonders at what hidden message might be inscribed into the faces of the cube. She is reminded of the Tesseract and it strangely endears her to the trinket.

Her eyes flick to the brilliant stone, then to Loki. "And the stone?"

"It's meaning lost to Midgardian history," Loki says. As she studies the stone, it seems plain beside the decorative box—smooth like polished amber, yet faintly iridescent from within. Idly, Loki says, "I prefer purple for you, but yellow will do."

Natasha snorts, dropping the stone back into its case and replacing the bottom half to the cube. "Are we talking about favorite colors? I like _red_—in case you hadn't noticed."

"You don't need any more red," he says and she looks up at him curiously, struck with the sudden impression that she was only following one shade to his words.

"So why are you giving it to me?" she asks, shaking suspicion and trying not to think about the significance of Loki presenting her with a gift—because that's _Pepper_ talking and strange little trinkets didn't have to have any sort of special _meaning_.

"As gratitude, I suppose," he says in a dismissive tone, meeting her eyes to share a teasing smirk.

"Did I _do_ something?" Natasha asks, holding out the necklace by the chains to study the length, then slipping it over her head.

"You offered refuge," he says, "I might have found home in darker realms had you not done so."

Instinctively, Natasha crinkles her nose, feigning disgust, "You're not getting _sentimental_ on me, are you?"

Loki's eyes, bright with humor, merely stare back, lips pressed to a closed smile and any retort withheld. The large wall of windows to the left of her bed flood the room with early daylight and illuminate Loki's eyes—impossibly clear like the shallow-green of the sea.

The weight of the necklace sits awkwardly about her collar; the cube hangs just above her reactor, the weight of it strange and unfamiliar.

A _gift._

It seems almost _blasphemous _ that she should accept the trinket, yet to do otherwise is not even a consideration. That she should be _rewarded_ for housing a war criminal against the wishes of _all_ merely for the sake of _herself_ and what _she_ would need of Loki come future battles—

It _must_ be blasphemy.

She wants to point out that it had not been so simple as her offering him _sanctuary_ while he continued his schemes and she remained ever oblivious to whatever plans for vengeance against Asgard he yet formed. This is a truth they both know yet it must remain between them because _who could understand? _

Perhaps she _was _a monster—knowing that Loki would always consider himself an enemy of Asgard, yet welcoming an alliance with him all the same. Pepper could not understand—would demand action be taken to protect the immortal realm—and Natasha cannot bear to release her of the illusion that Loki is a better man than he truly is. That _Natasha_ is a better woman than she truly is.

Her loyalty is to _Earth_—Asgard a foreign land heard of only in the tales Loki wove—and her decision to carve out a place for him at her side had been more for _her_ benefit than his. She's under no delusions that Loki is a different man, but so long as it was not _Earth_ he turned his wrath to—in her deepest thoughts, she could not summon compassion enough to _care._ A faceless race of warrior and immortal Gods were of lesser concern to her than the protection of _her_ planet—_her_ family. She had conspired to ensure his exile to Earth so that she might benefit of his intellect and of his strength and to _defend_ against him, should the need arise again.

But she doesn't point any of this out.

She also doesn't point out that she's never been one to favor jewelry—but she finds herself smiling and the necklace remains.

* * *

Even without incident, Bruce feels his anxiety build with every day. The Hulk grows to be a more dominant presence in his mind, until it seems to Bruce that he and the Hulk become of one mind and it's difficult to contain the urge to release the tension that has built up within him—envies the Hulk for his ability to find release where Bruce can only hope to bottle away emotion and clutch at logic like a crutch.

He doesn't sleep for fear of relinquishing control to the Hulk and there's a queasiness in his gut when he recalls the tremendous effort it took to regain control of his form after his journey to Asgard with Loki. He hadn't thought to mention it to the God—nor had he any intention of broaching the subject with Natasha—but he could feel his control become as liquid, slipping rapidly between his fingers, and if the time came when he could no longer maintain the fragile leash about the Hulk, he could think of only one who he could trust to keep the beast in check. The idea that he would come to hold _any_ trust in the Trickster God seemed ludicrous, but despite his general distaste of the God, Loki had become a fixture in this new life Natasha had introduced him to. He would never understand the faith Natasha had for Loki, but Bruce could see now that it was not merely one-sided. It gave him hope that, in the event the Hulk was granted freedom, while _Natasha_ might never take necessary action, Loki _would._

Whether for his own sake or Natasha's, it mattered not.

It's with this thoughts that Bruce finds the two in the kitchen. He pauses at the door, amused, to see Natasha sitting at the table with a box of PopTarts and a Stark Tablet while Loki dutifully works the coffee maker. Whereas _before,_ the image of the two as anything beyond … _whatever_ he'd thought they were to each other, had been both disturbing and distressing—he finds himself loath to admit that, from what he has _seen_ of Loki, the two are almost like two sides of the same coin. He thinks it should concern him how _naturally_ they work together, yet it's Natasha and he's learned that very little about her can actually be quantified into terms.

"Hey, you two," he calls out—though the only acknowledgment he gets is a grunt from Natasha (who can't be bothered to look away from her tablet) and Loki wordlessly reaching into a cupboard for another mug. Taking a seat opposite Natasha, Bruce bites back a smile—tries to remember bitter resentment for the Asgardian God and comes up short by a long shot.

Loki joins them shortly, managing two mugs in one hand and one mug in the other like it's _easy. _He slides Bruce the Stark-Spangled-Banner mug with a smirk as he takes a seat beside Natasha.

With a half-hearted glare, Bruce accepts the coffee with a grateful nod. "You think you're so funny."

Loki's only response is his smirk and then Natasha remarks, as if only just then noticing Bruce, "Oh, _hey_—I've been meaning to talk to you."

Bruce blinks away from Loki, brows rising high on his forehead with interest. "About?"

Setting aside the tablet and eyes on Bruce, Natasha drags her mug closer to herself and says, "I've been thinking about places where we can go. Where you can transform with relative … _safety_." She grimaces on the last word to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the statement.

Bruce tries not to allow the topic to sour his mood because it's not as if these last several months haven't been spent tirelessly researching with Hank and Natasha in the lab. "There _is_ no place that is safe."

"No," Natasha concedes, canting her head in consideration. "But—remember the factory that Horgan destroyed?"

"Of course."

"Well, everything's in scraps but—_under_ the factory—we built a bunker," she frowns and Bruce notices her hand flex around her mug before she amends, "Well, my _father_ had it built way before the war and then _I_ reinforced it. I used it to test equipment. It's well outside the city on an isolated man-made island and reinforced to stand against _several_ nuclear wars." She smirks, evidently pleased. "I can't think of a better place."

Bruce stares and wonders, not for the first time, "Jesus. Who _are_ you?"

* * *

There was a time, not so far away, when Natasha's social exploits used to run a close race with her second identity—overcompensating, one could suppose, for school days spent alone with her head buried in scientific journals and works of fiction. She has always been a dreamer—a quality unshared between Howard and herself—and she had never taken life seriously enough to satisfy her absent and overbearing father, spending much of her youth building 'iron men' out of erector sets and fantasizing about the ancient tales of King Arthur and his Knights. At the age of seven, despite her mother's half-hearted protests, Natasha had been shipped off to boarding school in an attempt to instill her with discipline. The experience had taught her many things in regards to society and her peers. It was _here _that, despite Natasha's shy nature as a girl, she'd learned to adopt a charisma and charm one would have expected her to inherit from her socialite parents.

She had not always been the ambitious business woman frequently gracing the covers of magazines less to do with her achievements and more to do with her much publicized social life. Weeks of partying and barely remembered mornings replaced the girl who would have rather spent her nights amongst her creations, hidden away in a silent corner of her father's workshop. Iron Woman had come into her life and the only thing that had changed was that now Natasha had a new toy to show off when hosting extravagant parties in her own honor. Those had been simpler times, when Iron Woman had served as the single deterrent against terror and there had been no otherworldly creatures threatening their safety—when Natasha could be Natasha _and_ Iron Woman instead of finding time for _both._

After the Chitauri, everything had changed.

Was _still_ changing.

The shy little girl she barely remembers herself being had long gone, and all that Natasha knows of herself is what her father had left her to become and what Iron Woman had allowed her to evolve _into._

The chain around her neck is a heavy weight, the cube tucked into her shirt and pressed against the flesh above her reactor like a silent promise. Loki's scarf (snatched away from the man himself when the morning chill remained despite the fixed temperature of the Tower) is a loose wrap around her shoulders, concealing the slight bulge of the cube within her shirt—the smell of him distracting and at once unbelievably addictive and private.

She wonders at this new person she is becoming—and if it is something that is natural and _meant to be_ or something that she should try and run from and abandon before it takes her over and consumes everything that she _is_ like a _virus. _

Natasha and Bruce discuss amino acids and growing proteins found in the Hulk's genes, but her mind is only half on the subject. She's leaning back comfortably in the kitchen chair, arm thrown over the back of Loki's, Stark Tablet forgotten on the table in front of her. Bruce is drawing protein chains on paper towels with a pen he seemed to have fished out of nowhere and Loki is sitting silently next to her, listening intently—though if he's listening to them or if he's mentally elsewhere entirely, she doesn't know.

Peter finds them in the kitchen soon enough and Natasha cuts herself off to declare, "You're _late!"_

Peter doesn't bother looking chastened, heading straight for the refrigerator. With confidence he'd certainly been lacking months ago when he'd first begun as her assistant, he replies, "Didn't _you_ just get in?"

Natasha tips her chair back and cranes her neck to follow Peter. "I've been here for at least an _hour,"_ she says pointedly. "_You're_ supposed to be here when _you're_ supposed to be here."

Flashing her an unapologetic smile and a quick, "Sorry, boss," Peter ducks behind the counters separating the kitchen area from the dining room.

As Natasha reclines further back on two legs, Loki's hand comes up behind her chair to keep it from toppling. Grinning at counters, Natasha calls out over the clattering of pots and pans. "What's your excuse _this_ time?"

Peter waits to answer until he's standing again, armed with two pans. He smirks, a look definitely inherited from _her,_ and says, "Well—_you._ You and Spiderman were fighting some weirdo down on Lafayette. You backed up the traffic on Park all the way down to—"

"Okay, okay, you little smart-ass," Natasha mutters, rolling her eyes and dropping her chair back to all fours as she twists back to face Bruce. Loki doesn't remove his hand, merely moves it so that it is curled around the corner of her chair, and Natasha's arm remains draped over the back of his.

Pepper and Happy arrive shortly after and as the kitchen slowly comes to life, she's thinking again about the new path her life has taken. She has always considered herself a futurist—it's what made her so damn good at what she _did_—but Natasha had never known a full house or a warm kitchen filled with people talking over one another and laughter. After what happened with Amora and after Loki had returned, it was as if everyone else had come to some unanimous conclusion while she and Loki were left, caught in the middle, watching as Pepper and Happy and Bruce and even _Peter_ slotted themselves into an almost daily routine. There was rarely a day now when the Tower was left vacant and somehow it made dealing with everything so much _easier_. To sit here and actually have _breakfast_ around a proper dining table with the people she considered _family_—it was like she could forget everything else for a moment and just be _human._

"When are they opening your school again?" Pepper asks after they've all settled into their respective seats around the kitchen table—Happy taking the open seat next to Loki while Pepper and Peter join Bruce on the other side of the table.

"Next week," Peter says after swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "They're still trying to defrost the west wing."

Natasha snorts, commenting over the rim of a fresh mug of coffee. "I hear there's a flu going around. You kids are always getting sick—running around with snotty noses."

Peter cuts her a look that is both amused and exasperated. "You _do_ know I'm not an actual five-year-old. I'm _sixteen."_

Natasha shrugs. "It's virtually the same to me."

"Besides," Peter huffs, stabbing at his plate aggressively. "I don't get _sick_. I have a good immune system."

"Doesn't mean you can't be an incubator," Natasha says. "I'm warning you right now. Don't get me sick."

She waits to see if Peter will rise to the bait, but he doesn't, shaking his head and smiling. She sniffs quietly and is momentarily distracted by whatever Happy and Loki are quietly discussing—has no trouble following the vaguely worded conversation and her eyes flicking to Pepper in amusement to see if the other woman will catch on. Bruce takes opportunity in the lull of Natasha and Peter's banter to slide over his scribbled notes and attempt to pluck the young genius' head for enlightened opinions.

Pepper pushes away a half empty plate and looks up at Natasha. "Do you need me to cover you for today's board meeting?"

Natasha's grin dissolves and she sighs, setting down her mug. "Yeah."

"Do you have the prototype on you? We'll need it for the demonstra—" Pepper seems to catch something in Natasha's expression, though Natasha tries vehemently to keep her expression neutral. "What? What did you do?"

Clearing her throat, Natasha sits forward, bringing both hands to clutch her coffee mug in front of her. "I, ah—" She grimaces and tries to find the proper way to word this. "_May_ or may not have given it away."

Pepper looks horrified, though Peter looks amused—it's a small comfort. "What do you _mean_ you _gave it away?_ To _who?"_

Slowly, Natasha feels herself earn the attention of the table and she shifts uncomfortably as she says, "Uh—Spiderman?"

"_What?_" Pepper gapes.

"Spiderman," Loki intones, not bothering to hide the note of distaste as he says the name.

"Maybe you can get it back," Peter suggests hopefully. "You can just call him, can't you? I-I mean, not _now_, but, like—"

"Pep, it'll be fine," Natasha says, trying to salvage the situation. "You guys have the schematics. You won't need the real thing until next week, anyway. Just tell them I'm still running some tests or something."

Pepper does not look impressed, but she says, "Doesn't look like I'll have much choice." With a longsuffering sigh, she stands and grabs her plate, Happy following her lead immediately. She leans down to press a swift kiss to Peter's temple, smiling sweetly as she says, "Thanks for breakfast."

Peter grins. "We can't _all_ live off PopTarts and coffee like Ms. Stark."

Natasha responds by whipping a piece of toast at the kid like a Frisbee. It smacks him right above the brow and Pepper scowls at her before nodding to Happy and taking her leave.

* * *

Following breakfast, Natasha takes a car to S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, if only because the suit is still undergoing maintenance under JARVIS' watchful and metaphorical eye. She's learned to be civil with Fury over the course of these last few months, falling into the familiar routine of mutual distaste rather than outright hate. She will never forgive the manipulative bastard for the way he'd played puppeteer during the Chitauri incident, but she's adult enough to recognize that there are bigger concerns now than personal vendettas against high ranking government officials in charge of directing a secret and international organization.

"We've begun construction on the three designs you submitted," Fury opens by saying even before she's taken a seat in the black leather chair in front of his desk.

Settling in, Natasha merely arches a brow and mutters, "That was fast."

"They're in urgent demand," he explains unnecessarily, reaching a hand under his monitor to turn off the screen so that he could pin her with his full attention. "Ryker's Island is at near full-capacity."

Natasha nods—was _well aware _of this fact because she's been keeping tabs—and says, "I'd recommend prioritizing The Vault. The level of criminals doesn't yet meet the need for either The Raft or The Cube."

"But you expect that it _will_."

"At this rate, it's only a matter of time."

The streets have been filled with both super villains _and_ criminals seeking to join the masked craze by assembling identities for themselves and designating themselves as the adversaries of known 'heroes' such as Rogers and Natasha—even _Pym _and _van Dyne._ Natasha's only consolation is that, though Fury largely disapproves anyone working outside of his command, Spiderman's determination to fight crime despite his vigilante status has inspired some who've been similarly afflicted with new 'powers' to take to fighting on the _heroes_ side, rather than joining the rising criminal factions.

"How is your progress with the Zone and Prison 42?" Fury asks.

"Good. The suit has been completed. We think we're ready for testing."

Fury's expression hardens. "I don't want you going in there."

Natasha frowns. "I'm not sending anybody _else."_

"Natasha Stark is much more valuable to this country. Send—"

"No," she says stiffly, sitting forward and scowling. "I'm _going_. Reed and I have run the calculations. The probability of success is nearly eighty-six percent."

Fury shakes his head, glaring. "That's not good enough for me."

"It's going to have to be."

"Then hold off until you can give me a _hundred,_" he snaps, startling Natasha with his intensity. Calming, he sounds no less determined when he says, "I mean it Stark."

She manages to hold his gaze for a minute before she gives in to her exasperation and sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. "We _need_ the Zone. We _need_ Prison 42."

"And I _know_ that," Fury says, clearly trying to remain patient. "But we _also_ can't afford to lose either Iron Woman or _you._"

"You said it yourself—Ryker's Island isn't going to cut it and it'll be _months_ before The Vault makes any progress, even _with_ the help of my Iron Women."

Fury's mouth presses into a firm line and Natasha's eyes narrow, immediately sensing something is up. "Pym is working on his own design."

A flare of annoyance sparks briefly in her gut and she huffs incredulously, "_Pym?"_

Gathering his shoulders into a more defensive pose, Fury says, "It'll serve as a rehabilitation center for criminals whose genome has been altered."

Natasha stares—says, tonelessly, "This a joke."

Fury bows his head and makes an aimlessly gesture with his hand in some sort of acknowledgement. "I'll admit that I'm not particularly sold on the idea that these psychopaths can be 'reformed'—nevertheless, it's an order from above."

Natasha sneers. "This has _Hill_ written all over it."

"Agent Hill and I work as _one_," Fury says neutrally; Natasha is not convinced.

"Do you? 'Cause it's starting to look like she's cutting corners around your authority to get things done _her_ way." Natasha frowns, moving forward in her seat so she's sitting on the edge. Grimly, she states, "You _know_ how she feels about us, Fury. She doesn't even like _Rogers."_

"That doesn't make her a villain," Fury sighs, adding in annoyance, "_You_ don't like Rogers."

"That's different," Natasha argues, shaking her head adamantly. "I'd still trust him with my _life_."

"_That's_ good to hear."

Natasha starts at the voice and glares at Fury before looking left to see Rogers stepping past the elevator doors into Fury's office. He's dressed in his Captain America uniform, a folder tucked under one arm and a casual smirk on his lips as he crosses the room. He takes the seat next to hers when Fury dismisses his salute and gestures for him to settle in.

Schooling her features, Natasha nods once in acknowledgment and says, "Rogers."

"Stark," he replies with a similar nod. Natasha turns away swiftly to focus a mental glare on Fury.

"What d'ya got?" Fury asks Rogers, ignoring her.

Rogers leans forward to hand over his report. "Vigilante calling himself 'Americop'."

"Wow," Natasha blurts, accepting the file when Fury wordlessly holds it out to her without bothering to open it himself. Scanning the first couple drafts of Rogers' report, Natasha muses, "How do _you_ get all the national terrorists?"

"Probably because I'm going around calling myself _Captain America."_

_Funny, _she thinks. _That's actually funny. _Natasha bites back the instinctive urge to smirk, recalling that there's still the matter of an _apology_ owed between them. She takes a breath and returns the file to Fury. "Right," she grunts, eyes on Fury. "And so _I_ get guys calling themselves _Melter_ and—hey, did Vanko have a name for himself?"

Fury shrugs as he drops the file into the basket on his desk labeled INBOX. "Not one that's on file."

"Did you _give_ him a name?"

Fury seems to think about it for a minute, before saying, "I think Hawkeye was calling him Whiplash—or _something_ to that effect."

Natasha turns a poorly concealed grin on Rogers. "Whiplash doesn't sound too bad."

"Sandman," Rogers retorts.

"Sandman is a _lame_ name and you didn't even fight him. _Spiderman_ fought that one _for_ you," Natasha huffs. "Black Knight."

"We fought that one _together,"_ Rogers reminds her, frowning. "Besides, Pym and van Dyne did most of the work."

"You mean _Spiderman."_

"And Spiderman, yes."

"What about—"

"You two _done_ comparing the length of your _capes_?" Fury says suddenly, irritated.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha stands, stretching her back as she says, "Yeah, yeah. I'm out of here."

"Not yet," Fury says, pointing at her seat. "I need _both_ of you for this."

Natasha frowns, stilling. "I still need to—"

"Sit." Stubbornly, Natasha remains standing, yet when she doesn't move to leave Fury takes that as acquiescence and continues. "Given the amount of supers we've got flooding the streets, the Council has decided that it would be in the best interest of the public if we presented a _united_ front."

"I didn't realize we _weren't,"_ Natasha grouses, crossing her arms.

Fury dismisses the comment. "The people are _terrified. _They're worried that this outbreak cannot be contained. We're doing the best that we can in a shit situation, but police officers and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents can't give them what they _really _need—and that's peace of mind. _Hope._ We're just badges fighting these larger than life villains. They need something just as big—something _bigger_, in fact—to give them the ability to _hope _for a better future_."_

Natasha understands immediately. "The Avengers."

Quietly, Rogers says, "You want to reinstate the Avenger Initiative."

Folding his hands on his desk, Fury alternates looking between them to convey the severity of his words. "This is something both the Council and I have agreed upon—yet we cannot go through with this if _you_ two aren't on board."

Natasha doesn't need to ask _why._ She's well aware of the public's perception of Iron Woman and Captain America. She understands the responsibility now in a way she hadn't before when she'd first taken up the mantle. Resignedly, she closes her eyes, exhaling soundlessly.

"I need to know that you two can function as a _team_. You'll be looked to as representatives—as _leaders._ This isn't like last year, where desperation forced you to work together for a unified cause."

Or _deception_, Natasha thinks, but wisely does not voice aloud.

"This time—you _need_ to be a team. You need to give the people something to look up to—something to make them feel _safe." _Fury pauses, clearly awaiting protest. When Natasha and Rogers remain silent, he asks, "Can you _do_ this?"

A part of her had known this day would eventually come. She couldn't consign herself to a life as Iron Woman, pledging herself to the protection of her country, and also continue to indulge in the petty animosity she'd allowed to brew between herself and Rogers. The country _needed_ Iron Woman and Captain America—and they needed them _together._

"Cap and I have been working together thus far," Natasha says at last, looking to Fury—realizes that both Rogers and Fury must have been waiting for _her _to announce her stance when some of the tension seems to ease. "Giving us a name doesn't really change anything."

But it changed _everything._

Fury nods. "Good. Captain?"

Rogers stands—says amicably, "I don't see where there would be a problem."

Fury takes a moment to study them both, single eye narrowed in skepticism. Eventually, he grunts, "Uh-_huh_. Well—I'm glad you both agree."

Natasha sniffs, growing steadily more uncomfortable. "So—am I good to go?"

"Are you heading back to the Baxter Building?" Fury asks idly, apparently in no hurry to see her gone.

"Yes," Natasha huffs, frowning. "Are you sending out another sitter?"

Fury levels her with a pointed look. "Do you _need_ one?"

Natasha's response is a smarmy smirk. "Only if you send a _cute_ one."

Fury rolls his eye and reaches to switch his monitor back on. "Then I'll spare us both the lawsuit and allow you a break from Agent Hill's lapdogs."

"Thanks," Natasha snorts, moving to go. "You're such a _giver_."

"Get out."

She doesn't need to be told twice, but it isn't until she is already in the elevator and punching the button for the lobby that she realizes Rogers has joined her. As the doors close in front of them, Natasha thinks she catches a flicker of a smirk across Fury's lips.

With a jolt, the elevator begins its descent, and they're barely past the first floor when Rogers clears his throat and awkwardly says, "Looks like we're going to be working together again."

"Yeah," Natasha mutters, determined to keep her eyes on her murky reflection in the brushed steel of elevator doors.

She considers ignoring him for the duration of the ride downstairs—things have been awkward as _fuck_ between them but at least there hadn't been another explosive falling out, which seemed to result when either one of them approached even the _idea _of _feelings._ She was quite content to pretend that the argument in his apartment had never happened and go back to the way things had been just after the Chitauri incident. At least _then_ she'd known how to _feel_ about the man.

As seconds tick by, stretching like hours, she can practically _feel_ Rogers searching for something to say. Sighing, she steels herself for possible confrontation and faces him. "Look—is that going to be a problem? Because, you know—"

"No," Rogers says immediately, shaking his head urgently. He has a strange look on his face that is both earnest little boy and resolute soldier. Natasha blinks, but the expression is still there. Rogers takes a breath and, _carefully_, he says, "I've been meaning to talk to you—but I just didn't know _how. _There never seems to be a right time or a right place—"

Natasha feels herself begin to panic and stills herself before she can take an instinctive step back. "Yeah, about what you said—"

"It doesn't matter," Rogers says, cutting her off again. He seems determined for her to hear him out first. "I should never have presumed to know you without ever bothering to actually _try. _I was a hypocrite and my behavior—I am ashamed. But what's been said between us—that's history. You were _right_. I've allowed myself to become rooted to the past enough as it is—I don't want to linger on our past differences. I want to be able to work with you and call you _partner_."

The honesty of his gaze is almost too painful to look at.

Natasha averts her eyes immediately—feels the muscles in her faces twitch traitorously as she struggles to contain conflicting emotions. She can't explain the swell of emotion, but she feels a suspicious prickle in her eyes and it takes everything in her power to keep herself in check. She wonders if this is a joke—but Rogers would never be so cruel. Yet Rogers strikes a cord in her that resonates with every dark emotion that has ever burrowed in her heart.

The elevator hits the lobby floor but Natasha reaches out to hit a top-floor number and the doors close and they're moving up again. Rogers watches her, both patient and nervous.

Everything that _needs _to be said cannot be put into words. There are _years_ between them, yet Rogers has known of her for only a _fraction _of the time that he's been a part of her life. She knows that the damage between them can't be salvaged with words alone, but the opportunity to _speak_ and be _heard_ is powerfully enticing. When her father had first spun his tales of his grand adventures with the American legend, Captain America had been a _hero_ to her. Idolism which eventually gave way to bitterness—but there had been a time, so _long ago_, when Captain America had been _her_ hero and her affections for him had been _pure._

She's not sure she can ever return to that. Not sure she can ever look at Rogers without a part of her hating him for the shadow he'd cast over her memories of her father.

There is _so much_ that can never be said—so much that Rogers will never _understand_—yet …

The elevator arrives at its destination and this time it's Rogers that reaches out, punching an arbitrary number.

Natasha waits for the doors to close again—watches the numbers begin to descend on the track above the doors—and eventually, when she's found her courage, she says, "You weren't the only one. I know I share the blame in this."

That can't even _begin_ to be enough.

"It doesn't matter," Rogers says. "None of it does. You are not your father, and I did not know the Howard you did."

Natasha drops her head, eyes on the ground. Her entire face is contorted in what feels like pain and her pride rails against her like a vicious beast.

Yet, as the words find a breath to ride, she finds some of the weight in her chest lifted. Inhaling, she looks up to hold his honest gaze and does her best to smile as reassuringly as she can manage. "For … what it's worth—I'm—" She swallows—and a thousand different things run across her mind but all that she says is: " ... I apologize."

They ride the elevator the rest of the way down in silence and step out as one when the doors open to the lobby. It feels awkward to walk directly in step with him, and she imagines he has slowed his gate to keep himself from moving ahead without her. They receive many nods and salutes as they make their way towards the exit, though Natasha suspects that they're directed towards Rogers than herself given the reputation she's built with S.H.I.E.L.D.

At the revolving doors, Rogers abruptly takes her shoulder, forcing her to a halt. She frowns, looking up at him to see that same determination from earlier.

"Let's try this," he says gravely, alarming her.

"Try _what?"_ she asks, turning to face him. Rogers drops his hand and straightens, as if gathering himself for something. Then—he smiles suddenly, a disarming and brilliant smile, and Natasha stares, stunned_._

"Natasha Stark," he says, extending a hand between them. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I knew your father."

For several seconds, Natasha is speechless—her mouth hangs open unceremoniously and it elicits a chuckle from the man. "I—" Her teeth click as she shuts her mouth, scowling at herself and her lack of composure. Shaking her head in attempts to regain some of her Stark bravado, her lips purse into a poor imitation of her usual haughty smirks, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes, and she accepts his hand, shaking it firmly and holding his gaze. "A pleasure. My … father … talked a lot about you."

Rogers grins.

Natasha's smirk drops and she frowns, squinting her eyes up at him suspiciously. "Is this—are we—are we starting _over_?"

Rogers releases her hand and shrugs, grin widening. "It only seems fair. I was never given the opportunity to properly get to know you. _This_ time, I'd like to avoid any misunderstandings, if that's possible."

Natasha stares—find it difficult to believing that she's not merely hallucinating. " … How are you even _real?"_

Rogers laughs, clapping her hard on the shoulder before starting for the revolving doors. "I look forward to working with you," he says over his shoulder.

After a second of hesitation, Natasha follows, muttering, "That … is a _weird _thing to say, given what we _do."_

But on the street, when they part ways, Rogers is still grinning and there is no deception in his eyes. Natasha frowns, still skeptical, as she slips into her car and tries to dispel the fluttering of excitement in her belly.

* * *

Despite her busy schedule, Natasha learns to take her health more seriously. In addition to proper meals and a diet that does not consist purely of caffeine and alcohol, she finds a way to work daily exercise into her schedule when it becomes obvious that her body cannot sustain itself on the moderate workouts she'd kept up purely out of habit. Iron Woman was becoming a daily necessity and, on its own, the suit could be _exhausting_ to wield. Her body needed to be conditioned to a point where she could hold out on her own without the Iron Woman being forced to carry her weight.

Early mornings were designated for jogs, and every other day Happy acquiesced to join her in the ring to resume their boxing lessons.

In addition to everything else she's mounted on her plate, for the first time in a long time, sleep comes a little easier to her at night.

She's grateful for the time she gets to herself in her workshop, even if she's never _really _alone.

In a rare moment of freedom, Natasha is working on her latest armor after returning from an encounter with yet another criminal when Loki appears, dressed in a thin ash-colored V-neck and dark washed jeans. She has to set down her tools and stare as he all but collapses into the extra chair at her station, a disgruntled look on his face.

"Wow, you look … extremely—" Natasha feels herself grimace as she searches for the right word. "—_casual_ today."

Loki snorts, reaching out to grab the Tri-beam magnification plate from the work table, rotating it idly in his hand. "Your stylist arrived."

She frowns, pulling the neckpiece she had been working on back onto her lap. "I didn't even get through _half_ of last season's wardrobe," she mutters. Then, straightening with sudden horror, she exclaims, "Wait—did he—"

Loki flicks her with a quick look, scowl softening for a second. "Your shirts are safe."

"Oh thank God," Natasha exhales gratefully, flipping the neckpiece over so she can turn her attention to the collar's stress attenuation area. Palming a custom screw driver from her desk, she gestures loosely with her free hand at his outfit. "So, what's with the … "

"_Evidently_, Pepper consigned him to purchase me a new wardrobe, as well," Loki says, with no small amount of bitterness. Natasha sniffs, amused because she had not realized how much distaste he held for Philippe. "I do not think she realizes that it is unnecessary."

"She just wants you to feel at home," Natasha says with a dismissive shrug, tightening each bolt carefully around the titanium stress ring fitted into the neck cowl.

"I know," Loki says.

Natasha looks up sharply at the strangely heavy tone, frowning. His eyes are on the magnification plate, pensive again—almost _troubled_—which is an expression she's caught him with often these past few weeks. Lately he's been harder to read—at one moment happy, almost content, and in other moments guarded and obtusely silent.

Suddenly, his eyes flick to meet hers and something inside her jolts; automatically, her mouth forms a smile, unbidden. "You look good," she says quietly, without her usual playful inflection.

Natasha watches in fascination as the lines of his brow smooth and the resentment in his eyes dissolves. His smile comes easily, forming across his lips like liquid.

"Thank you," he murmurs sincerely.

Sometimes, it's like she forgets herself when she looks into his eyes—impossibly yet deceptively clear. Minutes feel like micro-seconds—too short by an eternity—and in these moments, Pepper's words come creeping back, sensing weakness.

"Hey!" she remarks suddenly, in efforts to distract herself. "You should come to dinner tonight. Rhodey's in town."

Loki frowns and she feels the tension fall away as the moment is lost. His eyes are back on the plate in his hand, expression bland and eyes reflecting disinterest. "Again?"

"His suit needs an upgrade. What do you say?"

Setting the plate on the desk, Loki folds his hands on his lap and levels her with an arched brow. "You know how he feels about me."

Of course, while everyone else seemed to have finally accepted the idea that Loki was here to _stay_—for an indefinite, but certainly not _infinite,_ amount of time—Rhodey was still of a mind to ship the God back to Asgard as quickly as possible. Rhodey had not held any particular affection for Olson, but in regards to Natasha, he had always behaved in a far too protective manner.

Natasha sighs. "Well, we need to go out _some_ time because _I_ just found out that _apparently_ I'm in an adulterous relationship with Brad Pitt and I kind've _like_ Angie, in the 'I'm-actually-pretty-terrified-of-her-she's-so-int ense' kind of way, so I'd like to put those rumors to rest as quickly as possible."

Loki sniffs, nodding in understanding, but her attempts at humor fail to rouse him from the dour mood he's fallen back into. "Any face in particular you'd like me to wear?"

Natasha balks at the suggestion. "Don't be ridiculous. Just go as yourself."

"It was your idea to begin with," Loki says dismissively. She had asked Loki to alter his appearance a grand total of _three_ times, but the novelty of it had quickly been lost and he'd never voiced any disapproval.

Rolling her eyes, she says, "Only because it made me feel like Simon Pegg to your Tom Cruise."

Loki frowns. "I don't—"

"Mission Impossible."

"Oh. Right." He nods, though his frown remains. "I don't understand how you remember the names of all these obscure actors."

Natasha can't help but laugh because—_really?_ Tom Cruise? _Obscure?_ Loki doesn't seem to understand her amusement, however, so she calms and explains, "It's just part of the American culture. Celebrities are like royalty—only _not."_

Where normally she'd be inclined to educate him on the customs he should come to expect of Americans, she can see the instant she has lost his attention and it makes something in her stomach drop unpleasantly. His eyes are distant, focused on something on her cheek rather than her eyes, and it's as if he's not really present with her.

She doesn't know how to approach—finds that, suddenly, every word between them held a _world_ of weight and asking for his thoughts might reveal more than she's willing to hear.

Quietly, she sets the neckpiece on the desk and then stands to work in silence over the station. Her hands move almost mechanically, carefully reattaching the several layers consisting of the headpiece. To divert her thoughts from Loki, she focuses on cataloguing each component as she works—careful of the underside fibers as she handles the sub-routine processor, connecting it to the cybernetic antenna array. The array is shaped to cocoon the upper half of her skull, extending from the length of the frontal lobe to the occipital lobe. She has to handle it delicately as she attaches the occipito-mastoid padding where it will cradle the back of her skull, then parietal padding, which will sit atop her skull. She fits them under the flat neural net mesh, all of which she then connects to the starboard top outer casing—the top layer of the helmet—and the rear headpiece.

Her hands are at her sides as she scans the station for the audio processors so she can begin working on the earpieces—when she feels something cool slip under her palm and she looks down, with a start, to see Loki's hand in hers. All thought suddenly escapes her and she feels her heart jack-hammering in her chest as Loki rises from the chair, smiling charmingly, his face so incredibly close in the seconds before he straightens to his full height—and somehow she _knows _that was intentional. Natasha cannot look away, and then his hand slips from her to cradling the back of her neck as he turns to face the workstation.

He nods down to the equipment scattered on the table, eyes still on her, and murmurs, "Would you like some assistance?"

Natasha finds it incredibly hard to breathe for several moments—and then turns away with a snap of her head to blink down at the dismantled armor, swallowing heavily while her stomach lurches and her heart threatens to knock into the reactor embedded just above. "Um—uh—yeah. Sure. Do you remember how to put together an earpiece?"

"Temporo-mandibular padding attaches to the cybernetic antenna array—then the transducer array, the audio processor, and finally the external case and audio pick up."

Natasha looks back up at him, embarrassment gone and replaced with pride. She grins widely, leaning into his side with excitement. "God_damn,_ you are so perfect_."_

She thinks it's her imagination when Loki's eyes seem to fall to her lips and his head seems to sway a little lower—but then he's look away and rounding the table, collecting the necessary components to complete the earpieces. Natasha watches him, her attention torn between long fingers moving deftly over delicate components, to the focus in green eyes that offer no hesitance as he works to solve the riddle of her equipment. It occurs to her that there is no other person in all the world—in _any_ realm—who knows and understands Iron Woman as well as she does. Loki has watched her work and create more than a dozen different models and he knows them about as well as _she_ does and—and that should be _frightening_ and _infuriating_ but it's _not._

It's exciting and dangerous, but so is everything else about him.

As she turns her attention to the suit, they fall into routine, working in unison to complete the suit so that in the end what remains are panels of armor waiting to be pieced together into its final form.

Plucking the HMD controller from the desk, she slips it over her head and adjusts the mic so it isn't digging into her cheekbone—then blinks twice and watches as what would normally be displayed on her helmet's HUD appears on the HMD's monocle.

"Okay, ready to see something cool?" She grins, moving away from the station and jogging towards an open space away from anything particularly valuable—just in _case._

Crossing his arms, Loki watches her expectantly.

"So, I've streamlined the armor before for efficiency in battle—but this time I've found a way to really strip it down without losing too much of its processing power," she explains as she strips out of her shirt and jeans to reveal a newly designed undersheath that is even thinner than the under-armor of before. Loki seems amused and she laughs, but continues on topic, "Using a combination of magnets and vectored repulsor fields, I've figured out a way to assemble the suit by just _thinking_ it."

Loki's amusement is replaced by interest and she holds out her right hand and localizes on the call-number reserved for her right gauntlet. Almost immediately, the right palm repulsor unit flares to life and rockets the gauntlet from the station, narrowly avoiding Loki's shoulder, and precisely into Natasha's awaiting hand, conforming over her wrist, plates extending out to grow the gauntlet along her forearm.

"Very impressive," Loki murmurs.

Natasha grins and then focuses on each call number so that, one by one, each segment of the armor was propelling itself toward her and locking into place around her body. It takes all of two seconds for her to achieve full armor and as the faceplate falls into place to conceal her expression, she frowns—because it's not _fast enough._

As Loki moves to join her, she conceals her disappointment and grins from behind the faceplate. "It's a cool suit, huh?"

Wordlessly, Loki reaches out, pressing palm to armored neck, then down along the contours of her shoulder, then arm. Natasha remains absolutely still, an effort aided by the weight of the Iron Woman encasing her body. Stepping around her, the light sensory units programmed along the outer shell of the suit help her track the curious trail his fingers mark as they graze along her flank, to the central vertebral unit that runs up along her spine and contains both her cooling and respiration unit—both of which seem to be malfunctioning.

As Loki's hand finds her neck again, he steps around so he's standing in front of her, indecently close. He brings his other hand to the side of Iron Woman's face, tracing the seam of the faceplate with a finger across her cheekbone, then to her chin.

"What are you doing?" She doesn't have the courage to drop her faceplate to face him directly, and it is only Iron Woman's vocal harmonizer that keeps her from sounding like a total wreck.

"Appreciating your hard work," Loki replies easily, looking directly into Iron Woman's eyes as if he could see Natasha Stark clearly beneath them.

"Seems more like you're feeling me up," Natasha huffs, tongue darting out to wet her suddenly dry lips.

Instead of responding, Loki smirks and says, "I take it your work with Extremis is nearly complete."

Forcing herself to relax, Natasha holds out a hand between them, flexing her fingers experimentally. "Honestly, the rest is in Maya's hands, now."

Loki hums in acknowledgement and asks, "Are you wearing the necklace?"

Natasha blinks—had completely forgotten about it—suddenly aware of its awkward design pressed into her skin, just shy of uncomfortable. "Ah—yeah."

"Does it disturb you?" Loki asks, hand paused over the Tri-beam plate, just over where the cube was wedged between armor and skin.

"No, it's—I don't even notice it."

Loki nods, but he doesn't step away and Natasha takes advantage of discretion behind Iron Woman's skin to allow herself to remain under his inquisitive gaze. He takes in every detail of the armor as if he has never seen it before—as if he didn't know every panel and every unit that the suit was made up of. He traces fingers over the collar of the suit and she feels sparks of what she imagines must be his magic jolting her through the armor. She frowns up at him and he seems to sense the expression because he only grins in response and continues to send out little shocks through the armor as his fingers move up along the column of her neck.

_Yeah_, she thinks as her stomach jolts in unison to another shock against her skin, this time at the crook of her neck.

This was _way_ past the level of 'playful flirting'.

Trying to deny it was just _pathetic_ at this point.

Goddammit.

She exhales loudly and Loki pauses, brow furrowing curiously—but before either has the opportunity to speak first, another voice calls out from overhead.

"_I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"_

Both Natasha and Loki look up at the ceiling—and then Loki steps away and she sees Pepper's face projected on the holo-field above a station that had previously been displaying the schematics for the Extremis suit. She has a smug little smirk on her lips that has Natasha scowling.

"Pep," Natasha grunts, both irritated and grateful for the interruption. She's practically perspiring within her suit and that's just _ridiculous._ She's not a damn _adolescent_. "What do you need?"

Before answering, another woman steps into view, her image discolored by the blue-tinged hue of the holo-field. She's attractive, dressed in a slimming pants suit, red hair falling into waves over her shoulders. "_Ms. Stark,_" Pepper says in her business tone. "_This is Bethany Cabe, your new Chief of Security."_

Natasha's mood immediately sours. "Didn't realize I _needed_ one," she mutters, gesturing towards herself.

Pepper does not look to be moved. "_Iron Woman might not, but you are still very much flesh and bone."_

Cabe tries to offer an assuring smile but Natasha only feels her expression darken. "_Don't worry, Ms. Stark, you won't even notice I'm here."_

Loki stiffens, and he says before Natasha does, "What do you mean _here?"_

Pepper smiles secretively just a little behind Cabe. "_Ms. Cabe will take one of the lower suits."_

Natasha deadpans, "So, basically, you've hired me a _bodyguard."_

"_Basically_."

* * *

Loki leaves just in time to avoid Rhodey's disapproving glower. Natasha divests herself of her armor so she can prepare a station for War Machine, quickly losing herself in the repairs as she tries valiantly not to think about what had possessed Loki to behave so brazenly. It seemed to have come out of nowhere—one moment his mood sullen, the next awakened as if spurred by some new energy.

She hasn't really decided what to do with Pepper's advice. It wasn't so simple as giving into desire. She can admit that there is an all-encompassing _need_ that starts like an _ache_ at the pit of her stomach when she's apart from Loki and what is she supposed to do with _that?_ What does that even _mean?_ She's never felt such a frighteningly strong attraction, and now that Pepper had seeded the thought of _more_ in her head it was like a dam had been ruptured and all these wayward _feelings_ were spilling forward.

As Natasha teeters on the verge of mental instability, Rhodey makes idle conversation and she only half listens until she gets a call from Pepper so that the other woman can inform her that she'll be going out of town to attend to promotional business.

"The whole _week?"_ Natasha balks, hand faltering from where she had been meticulously disassembling War Machine's frontal lobe to access the suit's communications array. This time, there's no holo-Pepper to direct her eyes to, only a disembodied voice echoing overhead.

"_The whole week,"_ Pepper affirms.

Natasha grimaces, turning her attention back to the helmet. "I don't know if I can survive that long without you."

"_You'll do fine,"_ Pepper sighs indulgently—adding in a suspiciously pleased tone, "_You have Loki."_

Behind her, Rhodey snorts and Natasha finds herself speechless, Pepper's words churning her stomach as the memory of Loki's touch resonates against her flesh, profoundly felt even through the armor.

Gritting her teeth, Natasha jerks a little too roughly as she removes the starboard top. "Fine, fine. Just get back soon. Are you flying out tonight?"

"_Yes_."

Natasha hums and convinces herself she's being charitable when she says, "Take Happy with you. No reason both of us should suffer the absence of your wonderful presence."

Rather than offer gratitude, Pepper sounds suspicious. " … _What are you up to?"_

"Nothing," Natasha replies, tucking the handle of a tool between her teeth.

"_Sure. What are you doing?"_

"Working on my suit."

Pepper sighs and Natasha can imagine her shaking her head. "_Stay out of trouble, Natasha. I'll see you when I get back."_

"Okay," Natasha grunts, growing steadily more excited as she thinks about a week without Pepper's knowing eyes following her every movement. In afterthought, she adds. "By the way, Loki says thanks."

"_Did he like them?"_

"He was wearing them."

"_Oh my—I wasn't expecting that. I'm glad."_

"Thanks, Pep," Natasha says again, removing the tool from her mouth so she can be heard clearly. She hopes that Pepper understands the full meaning behind the words—because these last few months have been a _blessing_ compared to what had come before and she knew it had everything to do with Pepper and her open acceptance of Loki back into their home.

"_Of course, Natasha."_

When Pepper has gone, Natasha tucks the top plate under her arm and carries it to War Machine's station where she can begin working on extracting the memory unit from the neural net lining the underside of the outer casing. The design was by far inferior to her newer models—it had been too long since she'd had the opportunity to provide Rhodey with anything better—but she knew it was still leagues beyond what any foreign tech could supply.

"_Your_ suit?" Rhodey says, drawing her attention as he joins her at War Machine's station.

"Yes. _My_ suit," Natasha replies pointedly, dropping into her seat unceremoniously and shooting him a challenging look. "Seeing as how it's still technically _mine_. You know, because you—what's the word—_stole _it."

Rhodey rolls his eyes, claiming the spare seat usually reserved for Loki and rolling it to join her at the new station. "So what's the plan, exactly?"

Natasha turns her eyes back to the helmet and replies simply, "Upgrade."

"Which means?"

Natasha snorts. "Well, what it _doesn't_ mean is you beating me up and taking my _stuff._"

"Ha-ha."

Carefully extracting the unit, Natasha sets it aside on a slip of wax paper and then twists in her seat. Reaching up to drop the monocle of her HMD controller, she links to the Tower then navigates through the system to her workshop. She locates and accesses the storage facilities and the storage unit to their right immediately opens to reveal the latest edition to the War Machine armor she has been working on with Loki for the past several months. Rhodey nearly topples out of his chair and Natasha restrains her smile to a smirk.

"Upgrade," she says.

Standing, Rhodey gapes up at the armor in awe. "Natasha … is this … ?"

"For you? Yes."

He seems to catch his breath, leveling her with a dubious look. "… What's the catch?"

"Wow," Natasha intones, completely unsurprised, if a little offended. "You must be the most cynical, jaded person I've ever met. Rhodey—it's _yours."_

"No catch?"

"No catch," she affirm—then backtracks with a grimace, "Well, _maybe_ a catch."

Rhodey almost looks relieved. " … What is it?"

Sighing, Natasha turns her chair so she's facing Rhodey completely. "You know I have my hands tied with a lot of different things, and as much as I try to keep up—I can't be Iron Woman all the time. I can't be what the people need. It's not just New York that needs saving. The rest of the _world_ needs protecting, too." It's a terrible burden—but there's nobody else she would ever dare ask. Nobody else she would _trust. _"You've always been there for me, Rhodey. Now I want to be there for _you_."

Rhodey shakes his head, as if to argue, "Natasha … "

She says with an honesty she feels to her core, "The world doesn't need a _War_ Machine. It needs a _hero._ It needs someone who can symbolize _peace._ It needs a _true_ patriot."

In the end, she didn't care what Rhodey chose to call himself. Rhodey had always been her hero—it was time she learned to share with the rest of the world.

* * *

Natasha decides that the world must be against her when, on Pepper's first day away, she finds herself bereft of the strength to even leave bed. Everything is at once too hot and too cold, chills shooting up along her nerves any time the AC switches on. She feels suffocated under the heavy comforter and it's only when she shifts weakly to extract herself from bed that she's aware that the sheets and pillow beneath her, as well as the comforter, are all completely soaked in her sweat.

"Oh my God," Natasha groans, curling into herself when she realizes what has happened.

"You're still in bed?"

Natasha groans something unintelligibly, too tired to be surprised by Loki's presence within her room. She curls further into herself, worming away from the sweat spot and shuddering when she finds a cool stretch of dry bedding. She is distantly aware of the layers of sheets and comforter being peeled away from above her—until a sudden burst of icy air hits her feverish face. With a pitiful whimper, she retreats back under the covers and buries her face into bed.

Loki seems to take a moment to adjust. "You look … "

"Disgusting," she whines, "I _know_. I'm _sick. _Fucking kid …"

" … What kid?"

Her words sound muffled to her own ears. "Peter."

"Parker?"

She stifles a cough against her comforter and rolls her eyes mentally. "Which other Peter do you know_?"_

"How is this his fault?"

"Because kids carry disease like a mother fuckin' _sponge!"_ Natasha snaps back bitterly.

" … I'm just … I'll just let you get back to sleep, then," Loki says after a minute.

"Good," Natasha grunts, gritting her teeth against another cough.

_Fuck_ this.

Fuck _Peter._

Fuck everything.

* * *

Not since boyhood has he felt such a strain on his magic—to the point where the physical brunt of it was so strong that he could imagine _this_ is what it must feel to be mortal, weak and limited to a single plane of existence. He is forced to retract his projections, restricting himself to the projection reserved for accompanying Norrin Radd in his search for the ancient artifact. Loki finds himself at cross purposes—the necessity to ensure Norrin Radd's success paramount to his own. There is an order to what is needed to ensure all his careful plotting comes to fruition so that he may obtain retribution rightfully owed. Yet—his mind has not been his own; it is as if possessed, Natasha staking claim over his thoughts and robbing him of reason.

It is maddening to know that there should be any part of himself that is not fully his to control. Natasha had been a test—an experiment—and, later, a means to an end. He could admit to himself that she alone stood his only ally—one in whom he could place a certain amount of trust. In all the realms, Loki trusted only truly himself, yet Natasha had proven of like mind, and by virtue of that, he knew that, so long as he held her support, her loyalty would never waver. It was a trait predominant in Thor—yet Natasha was not so easily swayed by smooth words and subtle machinations as the Thunderer, who upon word of beloved 'brother' would turn hammer upon nations against the command of honored father.

Loki understood that so long as he maintained her faith, she would not turn from him—yet it was not until now, when Pepper's words had shed light upon secreted thoughts, that he realized that there might be a reason beyond want of an ally. Loki knew that there were none his equal—yet this mortal seemed comprised of all the knowledge and qualities that Loki himself _lacked._ She did not shy from the dark for want of the light—rather, embraced both sides and relied on wit and intelligence to manipulate the world to her desires. Her manner was not that of one who thought themselves hero, but of one who was willing to play villain so long as the ends justified the means. That she should choose to align herself with the side of 'heroes' amused him, for it all seemed a great game to Loki—in which there was no good and no evil and there was only Natasha and Loki, manipulating their rightful pawns in a game that was of their _own_ making.

The idea of it was tantalizing—it filled him with the desire for _more_. With her at his side, he could have it _all_, yet—

He did not like the idea of holding affection for a mortal. Lust was one thing, but any _more _than that was unthinkable. _Thor_ had cared for a mortal—and he had destroyed the Bifrost and turned against a brother all in efforts to protect her. He had sacrificed of himself for a woman who he might never see again—all so that she might be _safe_ for the short period of time it took before a new threat fell upon the Midgardians, as it always did.

As disgusted as he'd been in Thor for allowing such weakness—for Natasha, Loki does not know what he _wouldn't_ do. She is an addiction and he can sense no boundary—sense no limitation in what he was willing to do if it meant that she could forever remain at his side. It is a distressing thought—the urge to _give_ rather than _take_ was overpowering. Nauseating, even, because sentiment was a _sickness_ he long thought himself disposed of. He doesn't want to abandon himself or his goal—doesn't want to accept an easy balm to soothe the wrongs he's endured when the sweet pain of vengeance is so much more satisfying. He fears losing himself—losing that sharpness that he's prided himself for honing amongst a race of barbarians.

But—

Loki is also selfish—and though a part of him revolts against the prospect of allowing Natasha to become a weakness, he is too selfish to release her from his side. He lacks the nobility of Thor—would condemn Natasha to an eternity of hardship so long as they would face it together. For he would always be Loki, God of Chaos and Mischief, and it would forever be his nature to court disaster where it could be bred. He is not in the habit of denying himself anything—even when that thing promises to undo him _completely_.

"_What troubles thoughts, Trickster?"_

Loki swallows past the bile in his throat and grimaces a facetious smile at the image of Karnilla where it replaces his reflection in his bathroom mirror. He's weakened from the excretion of magic spent with little time to replenish, unaided by the fact that he has wasted valuable magic on projections so that he might remain at Natasha's side, lest it occur to Amora not to heed his warning. He can see it in Karnilla's eyes that the Norn Queen is not fooled by his bravado, yet his pride will not allow him to show any further weakness.

"Nothing of which you should concern yourself, Sorceress."

"_Share concern and perhaps find weight of heavy burdens lifted."_

"At a price, no doubt," Loki sneers. "Have you seen task to completion?"

"_There is yet more needed before my work can be done."_

Gritting his teeth, Loki breathes heavily through his nose before speaking. "Speak, then. What more do you require?"

Karnilla smiles.

* * *

Natasha is moderately awake sometime later but feels too miserable to comfortably sleep. It's been a long time since she's been sick and she's forgotten how everything can _ache_ to the marrow of her bones as if disease were burrowed deeply within. Upon waking, she'd also discovered that the side of her face she'd slept on was completely congested and the ability to breathe clearly through only one nostril was _beyond_ infuriating. To her surprise, Loki appears almost immediately, puzzled furrow between his brow. She's distracted from her instinctive inclination to complain loudly by the strange tint to his skin and the light purpling under his eyes.

She glares, scowl deepening when her voice comes out sounding raspy and unused. "What's _your_ excuse?"

"Pardon?"

"You look like shit."

He hesitates.

Realization descends belatedly and she recognizes his pallor is a symptom of over-used magic. When Loki doesn't respond, her suspicion is confirmed and Natasha is surprised—and strangely glad—that he chooses silence when she knows that whatever excuse he would have given would have been a lie.

"Whatever," she grunts, begrudgingly sitting up to prop herself against the headboard. Huddling the comforter closer despite the ickiness of sweat, she mutters, "Get me some soup or something and then sit down so we can watch a movie. I am not suffering alone_."_

Loki snorts, amused. He's gone without another word and Natasha doesn't know if he has any intention of indulging her but is prepared to complain loudly and frequently if he dares oppose her. "Hey, Jay," she sighs, thumping her head back against the headboard—then regretting it as the pain resonates throughout her skull and sinuses, intensified by sickness.

"_Yes, Ms. Stark?"_

"Let's watch some _Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang._ I'm in the mood for some Kilmer."

Loki returns shortly with the designated soup and settles down on top of the comforter beside her. Taking the soup gratefully into her lap, she savors the warmth and bites back a smile when she recognizes the soup belonging to same place where the team had ordered their shawarma in the past.

A cool hand settles behind her neck and Natasha jumps at the sensation, for once unsettled by the unnatural temperature of Loki's skin as it seems to shoot down her spine like a current of ice. She looks up with an apologetic grimace as she shifts away from his hand and sees concern settle clearly over his features. He draws his hand from her neck and settles for brushing his knuckles against her heated cheek—this time, she welcomes the sensation and leans gratefully into the loose fist of his hand, relaxing the tension from her body.

"I've never healed illness before," Loki murmurs, "But I can try if you'd like."

It's a tempting offer, and Natasha almost considers accepting—but the bruising around Loki's eyes gives her pause. She turns her face into his hand and he opens his fist to tentatively cup her cheek. "Maybe when you don't look like you're ready to drop," she replies, just as quietly. Her face seems to grow warmer in his hand and she pulls away reluctantly to face the television across from the bed, hands on the container of soup. "Wanna share?"

"Sure."

As JARVIS begins the movie, Loki doesn't seem to mind the proximity to her fevered and undoubtedly odorous self. Experimentally, Natasha shifts closer, taking his arm and maneuvering it over her shoulder so she can tuck herself comfortably into his side. When Loki merely summons a second spoon for the soup and cradles her head with a large hand, Natasha relaxes and lets her temple rest against his jaw.

"God's can't get sick, right?" she asks neutrally—mostly to see if she's still capable of clear thought. She spoons through the soup distractedly, impatiently waiting for a response.

"I have never known it to be the case," he says, massaging fingers idly against her scalp.

Natasha dozes off before the first ten minutes of the film and when she wakes, the credits are rolling and Loki's chin is resting on her head, the steady rise and fall of his chest indicating he is fast asleep.

* * *

**End Notes:**

EDIT: This is chapter twelve not thirteen! messed up the numbering of my chapters a while back when it forced me to split a chapter in two parts! I am so sorry for the confusion guys! Don't kill me!

Things were getting kinda serious. So here's some levity. (Enjoy it while it lasts). According to IM3, Tony returns to Malibu after the events in the Avengers. Obviously, in CV, Natasha has found more of a reason to stay in New York.

Sorry about the lateness. I had to take a week to kind of refresh because I felt like I had leeched all the words out of my system with those last few chapters. Also, I kept getting distracted writing down some scenes for the third fic in this series as inspiration came to me, and also upcoming scenes from towards the end of Everything Burns (which, I'll be honest, often resulted in me making myself cry and having to take a break again just to recover.)

Seriously, though, if I hadn't spent months agonizingly sorting out every little thing (down to key _dialogue_) that is going to happen in this series, you guys would probably getting a chapter every six months or something. Fortunately, the only thing I need to do is figure out the narrative, though that's still kicking my ass.


	14. The Gods Envy Us

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R

**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** YO PAY ATTENTION, ACTUAL MATURE CONTENT BE AHEAD. YA'LL BEEN WARNED.

**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **The REAL chapter 13.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen:

_The Gods Envy Us_

"Simon!"

The man in question groans outwardly at the familiar voice, burying his face into his hands as the other man bursts through the door and into his office without any regard to the petrified secretary sitting just outside. "Not _now_, Eric," Simon mutters when he hears the leather of his couch creak under new weight.

"Oh, come on, little brother—we don't see each other in _months_ and this is the greeting I receive?"

Lifting his head from his hands, Simon scowls. "I'm busy."

Eric grins, amused, "You can't take a break from work to spare your dear brother a little of your time?"

"I really, _really_ can't."

Simon is not normally so short with his brother, but Eric's presence in town is never a good thing and he already has his hands full with the company and negotiations with Virginia Potts to feign patience. Despite this, Simon still takes a moment to survey his brother—taking in the neat suit and slicked hair with some suspicion. Eric looked _good_ and he was grinning wide enough to brighten the entire room—which meant that he probably had a _job_ and Simon probably didn't want to _know._

When Simon fails to react agreeable, Eric's grin drops and he scowls, sitting forward as he asks, "What's wrong?"

Exhaling, Simon just waves a hand at him dismissively, turning back to his computer so that he can resume the message he'd been interrupted from completing.

"Is it the company?" Eric presses. "Is there a problem?"

Simon sighs, hands stilling over his keyboard as he scowls at the email displayed on his screen and the insignia assigned to the recipient of his message; the Stark logo glares back at him mockingly. "I don't want you to worry about it."

"Shut up," Eric snorts, pushing himself off the couch so he can stand directly in front of the desk. "How can I not?"

Simon shifts his glare to Eric. "I know you're not interested in—"

Eric rolls his eyes, waving his wands in a placating manner. "I don't give a _shit_ about the business, _yeah_, but I'm not such an asshole that I'd just sit back while my little brother is in trouble."

Simon sighs, sitting back in his chair as weariness replaces anger. "Eric—really. I appreciate it—but this isn't something—there's nothing that can be done."

Eric frowns. "What are you talking about?"

Before he can help it, Simon blurts, "Williams Innovations is going bankrupt."

He's never been able to resist submitting to his brother's protective concern as a child and he's just as weak to that look of determination _now._ Immediately, Eric's expression darkens and he snarls, "What? How the hell is that possible?"

Simon snorts. "It's _possible_ because Stark Industries stocks are completely _annihilating _the competition."

Eric blinks. "Wait—you're talking about what happened with Bruno Horgan, right? Heard it was _Stark_ who drove that guy's company to the ground."

Simon rolls his eyes, scoffing the comparison to a man who was responsible for the deaths of possibly hundreds of Stark employees. "Horgan was a psychopath—but yes. The same thing is happening all across the board."

"But I thought Stark didn't have contracts with the government."

Simon scowls, eyes flicking to his computer screen. "Exactly. It would have been better if she'd just continued manufacturing weapons. Now she's sticking her nose in everything _else_."

Eric is silent for a moment, then, "What do you want me to do?"

Cutting his brother a serious look, he tries to convey without words just how much Simon can't afford for Eric to be getting involved. Eric's idea of 'help' often led to more problems and Simon wasn't sure he could hold it together if, on top of losing the company their father had left him, he had to deal with his older brother's 'associates'.

"There's nothing you _can_ do," Simon says eventually, hoping that for once Eric might listen.

Eric scowls. "This is dad's company. You can't just—"

"Oh—like you _care_!" Simon snaps, slamming a palm to his desk in rage. "Just _drop_ it, Eric! The paperwork has already been signed."

"_What_ paperwork?"

Reaching out, Simon snatches the file tucked under his keyboard and slides it angrily across to his brother. "Stark bought out fifty-one percent of the company's shares. Williams Innovations is now just another—"

Eric balks, horrified, "You can't be fucking serious—"

"It's already done." Simon holds up a hand to silence him when he looks prepared to argue. "When Stark's attack dog flies in next week, everything dad worked for will be _gone_."

* * *

He is, at first, at a loss.

Loki understands little of human sickness, but when he reports to Pepper of Natasha's condition and Rhodes arrives the next day, armed with all the proper equipment, he cannot find it in himself to feel gratitude for the other's assistance. It's the longest either Loki or Rhodes have ever spent in each other's presence since the truth of his identity was revealed and the tension is such that he is almost compelled to abandon the Tower, fatigue stripping him of the patience to endure the arrogance of the mortal's glares—as if Loki _himself_ were responsible for any ill that should befall Natasha. Fortunately, Banner is present to levee his temper before it can be unsheathed, offering blessed distraction in the form of concern that does not relate to Natasha's present condition.

Though annoyed to be removed from her side while Rhodes claims the space at her bedside, Loki follows Banner out of the room without argument.

The main room does not offer them privacy from any who could happen upon them, but Loki is not of a mind to care. He is restless from magical excursion and frustrated by the lack of results provided by Norrin Radd's exploits—coupled with the near endless list of 'ingredients' for Karnilla's purposes—Loki feels as if he has at last stretched himself beyond his abilities. It's an infuriating thing to discover of oneself—to _know_ that even _he_ is governed by limitations—and it makes for a sour countenance.

One that, evidently, Banner is content to ignore for the sake of satiated curiosity. The man paces the room, well-stocked bar between them (that Loki takes advantage of by pouring himself Natasha's preferred vodka and orange). The movement seems to draw Banner from his thoughts and his eyes dart to Loki's hand as he brings the delicate glass to his lips for a taste.

"So she hasn't talked to you about it?" Banner asks as if continuing a question previously asked, gaze flicking upwards to hold Loki's.

Loki wonders if perhaps he'd allowed his mind to wander overlong when he has to make an effort to understand what Banner is referring to. "No," he mutters, drumming an impatient rhythm with his thumb against the bar, other hand still dangling the vodka and orange just a breath away from his mouth.

Banner does not seem appeased. "She would tell you, though, right? She tells you more than she tells me. She'd tell you if she—if there was _anything …_"

Loki's eyes narrow with intent as he studies the other man carefully—taking in his roughened appearance and the weariness of his eyes. In just a short amount of time, he seems to have aged incredibly and Loki muses over the man's control over the beast and whether it is time he offered … _permanent_ reprieve.

He swallows the last of his drink in a gulp and lowers the glass to the bar. "I have seen the Extremis suit, but not in the way it is to be intended."

It isn't the first time Banner has brought the issue to Loki, evidently abandoning attempts to reason with Natasha. He doesn't understand Banner's concerns, but that has more to do with his ignorance in regards to the complexities of Midgardian science.

Banner sighs, dejected, and it's as if all of him seems to deflate. He nods, running a hand through the thick waves of his hair. He begins to pace anew, though this only lasts a minute before he's rounding upon Loki again with an incredulous frown. "You're not worried?"

"Not at all," Loki replies smoothly, the half-lie falling naturally—_comfortably—_from his tongue. His concern may fall upon many things that involve Natasha, but the Extremis is not one of them.

Banner seems skeptical—then again nods, as if taking Loki's words and holding them close to breast in hopes of finding strength in them. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Wouldn't be the first time."

"You've had cause in times past to warrant such concern," Loki admits for the man's benefit.

"Well, look—" Banner says, stilling his fidgeting hands by smoothing them across the front of his distressed shirt. "I'm going out of town for a few days. I can't say when I'll be back. Don't—don't _tell_ her right away. She'll worry. I just need … "

Loki needs no further explanation. Inclining his head, he says, "I understand."

Banner's eyes look to everything but Loki, brow pinched in consternation. Then he sighs, retreating a step then turning away quietly, head bowed and shoulders lax with resignation. There is much that the man craves to say, it is evident in his reluctance to go, but it is not Loki for whom those words are designated to. Loki watches him go and debates speaking, coming to decision only when Banner has reached the doors to the elevator.

"Doctor Banner," Loki calls out, drawing the man's attention. Banner glances over his shoulder, frowning, and Loki holds his gaze as he says, "Should the beast prove too difficult for the man, perhaps a God might help shoulder the weight."

Loki does not believe it is nobility that spurs these words from him, yet there is honesty within them that he cannot deny.

Banner takes a moment to digest the words—then snorts softly, lips quirked.

The elevator arrives and Banner steps inside without reply.

* * *

Foul mood exacerbated by illness makes her less charitable. Half buried under a mound of pillows and blankets, she can tell by his silence alone that the expression on Rhodey's face is a troubled one—the cause of which will likely only worsen her mood should the root of his ire be uncovered. Rhodey is not a man prone to long silences without purpose. He is direct, speaking plainly his thoughts so as to avoid misunderstandings. He is not a deceitful person, which makes it easy for her to recognize his moods—aided by the fact that they have known each other for too long and understand each other too well.

She's tempted to nestle under covers and feign ignorance—but by her nature she cannot.

"What's wrong _now_?" Natasha moans, flopping down the sheets away from her face so that she may properly look up at her friend.

Rhodey is reclined quietly, shoulder against headboard and upper body angled to face her, legs hanging off the side of the bed. He's looking out at the city through windows which have been dimmed to a dusky opacity to block out the brilliance of the noonday sun.

"You're really not going to like it," he murmurs, a light scowl forming over his lips and across his brow almost as if it cannot be helped.

Natasha huffs, sniffling petulantly. "Then tell me quickly—like a bandage."

Rhodey's eyes drop to her and he snorts. "Yeah—that methodology doesn't really apply in this instance."

There is an odd note of anxiety in his tone and it has Natasha narrowing her eyes thoughtfully, re-assessing Rhodey's body language and facial expression—but for once, Rhodey is not an open book for her to read and for _once_ Natasha truly cannot begin to fathom where his thoughts might lie.

Rhodey has always been like a brother to her—and in that sense, neither of them have ever felt compelled to know every aspect of the other's life. They could go months without seeing or speaking with each other and yet never lose an ounce of the solidarity between them. Sometimes she remembers to worry—she remembers that she's supposed to _care_—but more often than not everything seems to be moving so quickly and evolving so rapidly around her that she doesn't have the time to look back. Rhodey understands this about her, but Natasha still regrets the divergence in their paths when once they'd stood together as one. Iron Woman and War Machine had become like a great barrier between them, guiding them each unto separate roads, and Natasha was unnerved to discover that she knew very little about what it was Rhodey now _did._

"You know I've been doing a lot of work in the East," Rhodey says.

" … Yeah?" Natasha replies, finding that the admission gives her very little insight as to where this conversation might lead. She was no longer under contract with the United States government, and as a result, she was no longer privy to specific information—such as the deployment orders of a certain Lieutenant Colonel.

Carefully, Rhodey says, "There was an incident. We encountered … a _terrorist_ cell … utilizing stolen Hammer tech. It had been modified from its original design, but—"

Natasha feels her stomach drop—her body goes still.

_No._

" … the tank that attacked my unit—I managed to destroy it, but when I scanned it … " Rhodey brings a hand to his face, massaging his fingers across his brow wearily. "Natasha, they were using _Stark_ tech. Old black market stuff. We tried to trace it, but … "

"You told me I could _trust_ you to take care of my stuff, Rhodey," Natasha says, forcing herself to sit up despite feeling as if she's been _gutted._ She stares down at the sheets, words hollowed of emotion. "It was the only reason I didn't go—"

"We were—_are_. We _are_ taking care of it—but there is just no way of knowing who has _what_. Natasha, people know who you _are._ They know who _Iron Woman_ is. You can't go out there attacking terrorist cells and not expect some sort of retaliation. We have to do this by the _book._ We can't just charge into other countries, gung-ho, and blow up anyone we see using your tech. We'd turn half the _world_ against us."

She'd thought she was fucking _done_ with this. The mountain of work yet to do before she could begin to see her efforts make a difference only seemed to grow with each new day and Natasha could no longer see a horizon in the distance.

The back of her skull hits the headboard with a _thud_ and she closes her eyes, a different type of sickness curling in her stomach.

"I just thought you should know. Obviously, someone has access to your tech that understands it well enough to use it against us." The bed shifts as Rhodey stands but she feels the warmth of his hand settle over her head, smoothing back her hair. "You should be careful who you trust."

Natasha doesn't open her eyes and her lips curl into an ironic smirk; she doesn't respond. She knows to whom the warning is in reference and she is not of a mind to get into that argument.

* * *

There is a disconcerting shift about him when he locates the energy cosmic of Norrin Radd and he materializes before the man. It is as if the ground beneath his feet is alive and fluid and it takes great strength to maintain himself upright when the muscles at his thighs and calves seem to quiver in objection. As his magic dissipates around him and his body fully forms within space, he feels as if all the breath has been knocked out of him and it is everything he can do not to reveal just how weak he suddenly feels.

For his part, Norrin Radd seems as unfazed by his presence as ever—yet he bears a strange air about him, and when he speaks, his tone is one that is edged in hostility.

"_You_ serve the Mad Titan."

The declaration is a surprising one; as Loki's mind gradually returns to him and his magic strains to permit his body the strength to remain standing, he takes a moment to wonder whether he has strength sufficient to battle the creature should he be attacked. When Norrin Radd only continues to hover upon his board and watch him, waiting, Loki smirks and says, "I was unaware that the task which I set you to was so easily accomplished."

The misdirection seems to catch the other off guard. Cautiously, he bows his head a fraction and says, "That artifact is yet undiscovered."

Loki sneers, "Then why do you waste my time speaking of—"

Righteous fury returned to him, Norrin Radd surges forward so that there is only an arm's length between them. "The Mad Titan seeks a universe in which _power_ rules without _reason_—_malice_ without _constraint! _Festering with the acidic bile of pure, unadulterated corruption—a primal embodiment of one's darkest nightmares! He is a harbinger of _Death_! He answers _only_ to _Death_!"

Sniffing quietly, Loki averts his eyes to convey his disinterest. "The Titan is merely a means to an end."

"Paradise unearned is but land of _shadow_," Norrin Radd declares, moving to hover in line with Loki's sight. "Only chaos would paint a universe of his making."

A dark smile twists his lips and Loki says, "You mistake me. I am _Lord_ of Chaos—I've no need of a _utopia._ Chaos is all I have _ever _desired._"_

The aggression falls away from the other and he draws back, shaking his head. Quietly, he says, "I cannot aid you in this. I _will_ not. My one desire is for peace. Peace for everyone."

Loki must resist the urge to lash out at the insolence of the man and his fragile heart. He speaks of peace for all yet would rather remain in willing exile on a planet where the only life held the collective intelligence of a grain of _salt._ Words and dreams alone would not bring about peace—the only peace to be found was in what you could carve for yourself out of these black and wretched realms.

In an even and agreeable tone, Loki smiles and poses a question: "Did you not, once, choose servitude of a greater power to service own purpose?"

This seems to strike a nerve within the man. He snarls, "I did not _choose_ servitude! I chose to _save my world!_ Serving that creature was merely the _price!"_

Loki merely smiles—waits for the burst of anger to be dispelled with the man's heaving breaths. Then, quietly, he says, "I hear tell you were known to the Earthians as the _Silver Surfer_."

Norrin Radd scoffs, averting his gaze as if looking upon Loki were suddenly unbearable. "It is only a _name_. A shackle to bind one to title."

Loki nods in agreement. After a beat, he finally says, "If you can be certain of anything, be certain of _this_: I serve _no_ man, no God, no _Titan_. I serve only _myself._"

Norrin Radd shifts on his board uncertainly and Loki sees the reflective features mold into an expressive frown that is both confusion and understanding. Turning away, Loki moves to lead the way to the large structure that looms in the distance—a mere silhouette against the heavy fog settled between them and their objective.

When he sees Norrin Radd fall into position beside him, Loki says, "Speak no more to me of loyalties and turn thoughts to more pressing matter."

* * *

For the next several days, the penthouse is startlingly vacant. It takes great effort to will herself out of bed on the third day, and even with heavy layers of clothing and sheets draped around her shoulders she shivers violently as she pads down the halls, frown growing steadily more petulant as each room she peers into proves just as empty as the last. Eventually, she retreats back to her room to sulk, shedding sheets as she makes her way to her bathroom so she can wash away the persisting stench of sickness_._ She's irritated mostly because she's had no one to bitch at and no one to converse with, leaving her with only her thoughts and Rhodey's words.

Most _importantly,_ Rhodey's words.

Once the anger passes, she's able to think clearly on a solution—though it is one she knows Rhodey will not approve of. Still, she'd respected Rhodey's wishes before by not pursing the criminals responsible for selling her tech to foreign hands. It's been nearly five years since then. She's not going to sit by any more.

She showers quickly—mostly because her skin feels too sensitive under the pelting hot water—and doesn't have the patience for a warm bath when she can barely stand to breathe in the now muggy bathroom. She changes into a thick robe when she realizes she'd forgotten to acquire a change of clothes.

As she steps out, breathing in deeply the cool air of her bedroom, she isn't surprised when Loki spontaneously materializes out of thin air in the middle of the room.

She leers, crossing her arms over her chest. "Hey, you—"

Too late she sees the abnormally blue tint to his lips and the sickly pallor of his face. When she does, Loki is already stumbling as if to hold his balance upon a rapidly spinning top, eyes distant and mouth hanging open as if desperate for breath.

"Jesus!" Cursing, Natasha rushes to him just as his knees seems to give out, nearly losing her own footing when his hands land heavily on her arms, seeking balance. "_Loki_?"

Instead of answering, he lowers himself staggeringly to a knee with a grimace, eyes squeezing shut in a pained expression. Natasha follows suit, taking to both knees and reaching out with her hands to take his face between them. His skin is clammy and like malleable ice and when her fingers flutter briefly to check the pulse at his throat she finds it palpitating fiercely. Her hand moves to his forehead of its own accord before she remembers that a Frost Giant's temperature runs cooler than a human's and she has no way of determining what healthy _is. _Humans ran hot to burn away illnesses—perhaps the opposite was true for Frost Giants?

Her hands shift back to cradle his face and she tries to ignore her own rapidly beating heart. "Lo—"

"I'm fine," Loki grunts, bowing his head. Natasha moves forward with the action so his brow rests against hers and frowns skeptically, hands tightening around the ridge of his jaw.

"_Yeah,_" Natasha scoffs, teeth clenching as she forces herself to remain calm. "You look _great._"

His brow furrows as his eyes squeeze tighter. "I just need to rest. My magic—"

"Jesus Christ," Natasha groans—because of _course._ Carefully, Loki folds his other knee beneath him so that he can sit back on his calves, his hands clutched loosely at the crook of her elbows. Her own still feverish skin makes it so that it burns where their foreheads meet but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she takes in the vulnerability of his expression and can't decide whether she's fascinated or terrified. "Selfish asshole—who the hell is going to take care of me if you can't even take care of _yourself?_ _I'm_ supposed to be the sick one, you dick."

She sniffs loudly to emphasize her point and a tired smile steals across his lips.

"You are very warm," he murmurs; she feels each word like a puff against her lips.

"You're the one who's freakishly _cold_," she replies, grinning faintly when she can feel his body relax and his breathing return to normal. She's glad when he merely hums his response and doesn't open his eyes because it allows her to enjoy their proximity without being forced to acknowledge it.

With an incredibly powerful reluctance, she pulls away, sitting back on her haunches and dropping her hands to the front of his armor, fingers curling around the heavy belt that runs diagonally across his chest under the heavy Asgardian coat.

"Can you change?" she asks after a moment, more curious than anything.

Loki grimaces again, his lips barely moving when he answers, " … Not yet. It is all I can do to maintain this form."

Nodding, Natasha pushes herself to her feet and inhales deeply when the abruptness of the movement dizzies her vision. Blinking several times to regain her vision, she realizes that Loki's hands have slipped to her wrists and she maneuvers his hold so her hands are in his.

With a huff, she tugs on his hands and tries to encourage him to stand. "Come on, man. I'd have a hard time budging you at full strength. I might barf if I have to try and get you into bed on my own."

This elicits a short laugh from Loki who finally opens his eyes to look up at her, squinting as if the room were too bright despite the early darkness of the autumn weather and dimmed lighting of the room. She tugs on his hands again; this time Loki shifts forward and with a grunt manages to find the strength to stand. He sways on his feet and she steps close, circling an arm around his back to him back to her bed.

The second the backs of his thighs hit the bed he all but collapses backwards, nearly taking her with him. Natasha releases her hold just in time as Loki flops unceremoniously to his back and remains completely still, eyes fluttering shut to welcome sleep.

With a sigh, Natasha crouches at his knees and inspects the complex design of Loki's boots before determining the correct order to undo the buckles and locating the zipper that runs along the calves.

From the bed, Loki groans and he tries to shift his foot away, largely failing. "Natasha, don't … "

"Shut up. Keep still, dumbass," Natasha mutters, rolling her eyes as she makes quicker work with the second boot. When she stands, Loki is watching her, green eyes barely a glimmer between the narrowed rows of lashes. "I'm gunna go get you some water."

Loki grimaces. "No. It's fine."

On the bed, Loki's hand twists so his palm his facing upwards, fingers extending towards her. Natasha bites at a corner of her lip as her body moves forward to accept the invitation without her consent. She lowers herself carefully to her side next to him, cautious of her robe. Loki's arm shifts to make room for her and she rests her head just below his bicep. She cannot see his face from her position, but then, neither can he see hers. She tucks her arm under her head and studies the stitching of where thick canvas meets leather in his coat. After a moment, she feels cool fingers brushing wet strands of hair away from her face, combing now patterns just above her ear.

Loki's other hand moves to rest across his belly and Natasha immediately reaches out to curl her fingers over all of his.

" … I don't need anything," Loki murmurs as if continuing an earlier thought.

Natasha snorts, squeezing her hand around his fingers. "It's not our week, is it?"

Loki merely hums quietly to himself as fingers continue to card through her hair.

* * *

Sometimes, when they'd both had more than their share of liquor, Natasha would hear her parents' shouts echoing down the long halls to her room. It's a clear memory—of laying upon her bed, tools scattered about herself, small hands frozen over mechanical instruments and breath stilling in her lungs. She would listen without hearing as the shouting grew louder—unable to discern words yet well versed in tone and the decibel of bitter rage. She'd listen to the heavy footfalls of her father as they paced closer to her room—the enraged screaming of her mother who lashed out with words where physical strength failed her.

And though the conflict never reached the sanctuary of her room, Natasha felt it as if it were her _own_, blossoming under her chest like a terrible, _horrible_ secret. Every word echoed in her gut—in her _heart_—and she would wait and wait and _wait_, both longing and dreading the silence.

She never knew her parents in love—although at times she imagined she could catch a glimpse of it in the framed memories that decorated the parlor. She never knew their affection nor knew that she desired it until many years later when she could see the past as the broken and shattered illusion of family that it was.

Despite this, however, her parents were faithful—faithful in a way that Morgan's mother could not be for his father. Yet, faith in a loveless marriage seemed to Natasha a pointless endeavor. '_Love'_ a pointless endeavor when it would only wither and fade with time as a new and brighter fascination took hold. From Howard and Maria and Edward, Natasha had learned by example exactly what she was _not_ looking for in life. She would not bind herself to another, enduring misery for the image of peace; nor would she forsake pride and allow another to treat her as something to be disposed, as her uncle had allowed his wife to treat _him._ She did not seek to hurt others—yet she would not hurt _herself._ She would be smart where her parents had been fools; would enjoy life as it was meant to be enjoyed—fleeting and bright.

It was a great and unspoken fear that she should allow anyone to weigh her down from any path she might set herself to—a greater fear yet that _she_ should be the weight to anchor another from their goals.

Howard and Maria had been miserable together—had maintained the sanctity of marriage in name only while their hearts blackened with resentment that turned them cold to all affection. Together, they were everything that Natasha never wanted to be and so Natasha had decided from a young age that she would never allow herself to want another so much that she should be blinded by it. Logic and memories aided her in this—allowed her the ability to remain distant from her lovers and even, to a certain extent, from those she knew as friends. It was a hardened part within herself that she couldn't admit to any other because it was the part that was ready and willing to sever ties with _all_ connections—a part that sustained itself on solitude and logic because, in the end, that's all she'd ever known to trust.

Sometimes, when things are at their best—when everything is good and things are quiet and Pepper is laughing and Happy is smiling and Rhodey visits and Bruce seems content—_sometimes_ she wishes it were enough to soften that part of her. Sometimes she thinks she would shatter without them—fears what she might become without their influence—yet it is not something that can be unlearned. In the end, she is selfish—she is a _Stark_—and she will guard herself and distance herself from emotional pain because it is not something Starks ever learned to recover from.

Loki challenges this—challenges _everything—_because she is _selfish_ and she wants it _all_ without ever having to give of herself and that's not how it _works._

Because Loki is selfish, too.

* * *

It only takes a few minutes before the hands at her brow still and she knows Loki has been lulled to slumber. She lays still next to him for what feels like hours but sleep does not similarly claim her. Eventually, the congestion in her sinuses returns and she extracts herself from his side with care. She shuffles quietly into her closet to find another pair of sweats and an overlarge sweater to change into. As she passes the mirror, she sees her hair has dried at odd angles and grabs a headband from the bathroom to push her hair out of her face before she makes her way to the main room.

"_Ms. Stark,"_ JARVIS calls down to her as she makes a B-line for the bar to fish out some water bottles.

"What's up, Jay?" Natasha murmurs distractedly as she crouches down in front of the mini-fridge.

"_Ms. Cabe to speak with you."_

Natasha frowns as she pulls several bottles into her arms. "Who?"

_"Ms. Bethany Cabe, your new Chief of Security."_

"Oh," Natasha groans, shoving as many bottles into the pouch of her hoodie as she can fit. "I'm not here."

"_Nice try, Ms. Stark,"_ replies a voice that is decidedly not JARVIS.

Natasha glares up at the ceiling. "Are you actually _here?"_

_"Yes. I work here, now."_

"Right."

_"You have a visitor. A Peter Parker."_

"My _assistant?_ You're screening my personal _assistant?_" Natasha's expression twists into a sneer, "Is that what I'm paying you for? Because I have _JARVIS_ to do that for me, _thanks_."

_"I am merely complying with what is outlined within my contract. I apologize for the inconvenience, but he is with company. Gwen Stacy—do you know her?"_

Natasha rolls her eyes. "His 'just-a-friend'? Yeah—yes. Just send them up."

Rounding the bar, Natasha moves to stand directly in front of the elevator, scowl in place. When the lift arrives and the doors open Peter offers a sheepish smile while Stacy falters beside him, evidently startled to be greeted personally. Ignoring her, Natasha levels her glare on her assistant, arms crossed and doing her best to project severity into her expression when she knows everything about her looks a mess.

"What part of 'banned' did you not understand?"

Peter blinks as he steps out of the elevator, sheepish smile twisting to a wry grin. "Did you let me come up just so you can kick me out?"

"I haven't decided," Natasha mutters as her attention shifts to the Tupperware in Stacy's arms.

"Well, I brought soup, if that will help the decision," Peter says, gesturing towards the container. Proudly, he adds, "My Aunt May's specialty."

Natasha's face curls immediately in distaste. "Yeah. I've tried her _meatloaf_ 'specialty'. You'll excuse me if I _pass_."

Peter doesn't even bother looking offended, chuckling as he nods in agreement. Behind him, Stacy shifts uncertainly before stepping forward and smiling. "Hello, Ms. Stark."

"Ms. Stacy," Natasha returns the smile with her own, dropping her arms to her sides to present a less hostile stance. "Good to see you again. Keeping Parker out of trouble?"

Stacy giggles, nudging her shoulder against Peter's side, to the boy's embarrassment. "I do my best."

They share a look that Natasha pretends not to notice.

"Do I need to heat it?" Natasha asks, rolling her eyes when the exchange lasts longer than three seconds.

"Hm?" Peter starts, glancing back to her.

"The soup," Natasha says, gesturing to the container with her chin.

"You can. It's good either way," Peter shrugs. "Want me to take it to the kitchen?"

"I can take it," Stacy volunteers with an eager grin.

Natasha shrugs. "If you remember the way," she gestures loosely behind her and watches Peter watch the girl as she disappears down a hall to the left. Natasha counts to five and when the kid's attention still hasn't returned, she snorts. "You're such a puppy, Parker."

Peter looks back to her with a pout, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and muttering, "Well, _you're_ certainly feeling better, aren't you?"

She shrugs. "A little. Thanks to Rhodey."

Peter brightens—because the kid is incapable of remaining unhappy. "The soup will help."

Natasha rolls her eyes, biting back a smile. "We'll see."

When Stacy returns the two bid her goodnight and promise to visit the following day after school despite Natasha's insistence that they _not._ She's not sure they're even listening as the elevator doors shut and, with an exasperated groan, she stalks back to her room.

The bed is empty when she enters the room but she can hear Loki moving about in the bathroom so she makes her way to the nightstand to deposit her collection of water bottles. She grabs the box of NyQuil Rhodey had left for her and pops two gel capsules from the aluminum packaging. Opening a water bottle, she knocks back the two capsules with a large gulp of water, turning when she hears the bathroom door behind her open—

And promptly _chokes._

Unfazed, Loki merely steps into the room with only a towel around his waist, dark hair hanging limply around his shoulders and curling over the long slope of his collarbone. As he moves to the bed, the part of her brain that isn't mesmerized by the sudden revelation of flesh notices the layers of discarded armor draped over the baseboard. Her attention doesn't stray to the clothing long, drawn back to the slick flesh and unexpectedly muscled arms and chest. Loki is by no means the behemoth of a man that his brother is, but she could see now the figure of a man who had been raised among warriors.

A sound that's both a groan and a whine escapes her throat as she rubs the base of her palm against her brow in frustration, squeezing her eyes shut as Loki straightens from his inspection of his armor—or _whatever_ the hell he'd been doing.

"Dear God," she mutters, inhaling sharply. When she opens her eyes Loki's gaze is on her and his expression is perfectly neutral. She clears her throat and exerts great effort to keep her eyes on his. "Um. Pete was here. He dropped off some soup."

Wordlessly, Loki nods in acknowledgement and moves away from his armor to make his way towards her. She's half tempted to run, but he's in front of her before her brain can issue the command and she resolves to tuck her hands behind her back to refrain from thoughtlessly relenting to the urge to reach out and grope the God. This, at last, seems to amuse Loki and he reaches forward to take her elbow and pull her arm between them. Both her stomach and her heart jolt in response—and then he slips the elastic band from her wrist that she hadn't even known had been _there_ and releases her as he reaches behind his head to pull his hair into a ponytail.

"You should be in bed," he says, ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, lips parting to reveal a sliver of teeth.

Swallowing, Natasha stuffs her hands in the pouch of her hoodie and juts her chin out defiantly. "I was thirsty."

Loki smiles and Natasha finally registers that his skin looks more its normal shade and the bruising around his eyes has receded—though not completely gone. Wordlessly, Loki reaches out to press his palm to her brow and she thinks it might have been something he must have seen Rhodey do when he merely frowns, puzzled, and asks, "Do you still feel ill?"

"I think the fever's gone, yeah."

He nods. "So it worked."

He removes his hand and Natasha frowns at the loss and his words. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," he murmurs, shaking his head with a dismissive smile.

Natasha's eyes narrow dubiously—but she's distracted by the gold ripple that forms about him like a cloak, concealing bare flesh beneath thin fabric of a button-down shirt and towel with slim jeans. "Going somewhere?" she asks, blinking away the image of his bare chest and looking up to focus on his eyes.

"Dinner."

She frowns. "I just told you Pete brought soup."

Loki arches a brow, amused. "Yes, I heard you."

She huffs and resists a laugh, shaking her head. Then, frowning again as she recalls the elegance of his arrival, she says, "Hey, how about ordering in, instead?"

Loki shrugs, moving away to take a seat at the edge of the bed—and, it's only for a second, but she thinks she sees a glimpse of his earlier weariness flicker behind his eyes. His shoulders are slumped forward, hands hanging limply between his thighs, knees shoulder-width apart; it is not the posture of the normally arrogant and confident God, but one resembling more that of a _man_. Her frown deepening, Natasha sits back against the nightstand as she studies him.

"And … " She hesitates and Loki's eyes dart up to hers immediately, bright and alert. "Maybe you should take it easy? You're never—I've never seen you this out of it. It's—you looked pretty bad. Earlier."

"I know," Loki says with a sigh, his expression shifting between annoyance and disinterest. His eyes drift to settle on the floor in thought. "A … _colleague_ of mine and I are searching for an artifact of importance. It has not been as simple of a task as I was led to believe."

Disregarding her surprise that he would even volunteer any information on his affairs, Natasha snorts, reaching out a bare foot to nudge his shin. "A colleague? How do _you_ get a _colleague? _Did you blackmail them or something?" A shameless smirk curls across Loki's lips as he stares down at the carpet and Natasha's grin dissolves. "Oh God—you probably _did,_ didn't you?" She groans, shaking her head. "I always forget I'm living with the frickin' _Trickster_ God, himself."

She thinks that's probably because Loki was far more complicated than what mere mythology books could describe.

Stepping away from the nightstand, she flops face down on the bed, her hood flipping with the motion so that it falls over of head. After a second, the bed dips as Loki lies back, tucking one arm behind his head. A few things occur to her to say, but the medication seems to be doing its job because she feels an abrupt wave of exhaustion settle over her and its suddenly unbearable to open her eyes.

She has to struggle to maintain some of her senses and she reaches out lazily to bump her fist against where she imagines Loki's shoulder would be. "Hey."

"Hm?"

She takes a deep breath, rapidly losing the energy necessary to speak. Eventually, she murmurs, "Take it easy with the magic for a few days, yeah?"

It seems like forever later that she feels a hand settle on her head and fingers burrow into her hair.

" … For a few days."

* * *

As promised, Peter returns to the Tower the following day armed with groceries and medication. Gwen has to cancel at the last second but Peter is not completely disappointed—finds it difficult not to let his mind wander in her presence and he's getting quite fed up with Natasha's running commentary on his lack of a love-life. He has to sit through another interrogation, courtesy of Ms. Cabe, and Natasha doesn't seem too pleased when she meets him at the elevator again with another glare, stalking after him when he immediately heads off to the kitchen.

"You're seriously going to stay?" Natasha balks again, her voice nasally from congestion.

"Yup," Peter smiles back at her, ignoring her scowl as he unloads the plastic bags from his arms on the island. He extracts a Gatorade from one of the bags and tosses it to her, hoping to appease. "It's my job to look after you, isn't it?"

Catching the bottle in her arms, Natasha glowers as she marches further into the kitchen to stand on the other side of the counters separating the large kitchen from the equally large dining area. Peter removes the contents of each bag before setting to carefully folding each plastic bag into squares.

"That doesn't _mean_ you have to _babysit_ me when I get _sick,"_ Natasha argues.

Peter shrugs. "Well, Ms. Potts and Mr. Hogan are out of town. And so is Mr. Rhodes and Doctor Banner—"

"Where the hell is _Bruce?"_

"I don't know. He just said he'd be out of town for a few days," Peter says with another shrug as he takes the folded bags and stores them in the drawer he'd designated for them. He stacks the Styrofoam containers of the soups he'd picked out from the farmer's market and smiles secretly as he moves to store them in the fridge, thinking about how peeved Natasha would be if she learned he was feeding her something that didn't cost a small fortune to buy.

He glances up at her in time to see her petulance deflate and give way to confusion that momentarily distracts her from her annoyance with Peter. "And he didn't tell _me? _Why would he tell _you_ and not—"

Peter honestly doesn't know why Bruce had gone, or why he would have left without letting Natasha know beforehand, and he tells her as much. "He only told me because he was helping me with a paper for school and he wanted me to know he'd be away," he explains, not expecting it to mollify her in the slightest.

He hears the scraping of a chair against the floor and when he looks over he sees Natasha has taken as seat at one of the dining chairs, sitting reverse on the chair so she can cross her arms over the back and watch him. She's glowering again, apparently setting aside thoughts of Bruce so she can focus her attention back to Peter.

"Look, I don't need a _kid_ babysitting me. _Seriously._ You can go."

Unmoved, Peter smiles. "I need to at least make sure you're getting enough liquids and that you're eating something more substantial than PopTarts and donuts."

Really, Peter's concern was not so innocent as that, but it was certainly just as noble. He hadn't thought much of Pepper and Happy going out of town, but with _Bruce_ away, the thought that Natasha would be left with only _Loki_ as company made his stomach twist with unease. He doesn't trust the Trickster and he doesn't think he _ever_ will—with good reason, _too._ He also doesn't understand what sort of alliance there might be between Natasha and Loki, but with Iron Woman out of commission while Natasha recovers from her flu, Peter is not willing to take his chances and maintain faith that Loki won't take advantage of the situation to do something _devious._

_Also_, there's the tiny and very disturbing matter of—

As if cued, Loki enters the kitchen, dressed down in what passes for 'civilian' clothes with the God—but to Peter just makes him look like one of the douchebags from the fashion catalogues. He falters when he sees Peter and his eyes narrow in suspicion before he crosses the room to join Natasha by the table. Peter knows the smile is gone from his face and can't immediately find the ability to summon it again under the weight of Loki's stare. Loki's expression is cold, lacking the cordiality that once was his façade when identities were yet unexposed and Peter finds himself shifting a step back instinctively.

No words are exchanged between Loki and Natasha as the God takes his position directly at her side and Peter's eyes immediately snap to the large hand that lowers upon Natasha's shoulder with a familiarity that has Peter biting back a grimace.

Peter snatches another Gatorade from the counter and tosses it towards the God without any thought to his own personal safety. "Here! Have a drink!"

Reacting quickly by catching the bottle with both hands, Loki's expression darkens for a second before he mutters, "I'm not thirsty."

Peter swallows and looks between Natasha's suspicious frown and Loki's irritable glower and wonders if it's worth the humiliation to carry through with his intention to stick around for the rest of the day.

With a glare that feels very much like a warning, Loki turns away from Peter to regard Natasha. "I have some things to attend to. I won't be gone long."

Natasha's squints at Peter for a second longer before shaking her head and looking up at Loki, scowl clearing. "Sure." Wordlessly, she reaches out to grab the Gatorade from Loki's hands, sitting back to deposit the bottle on her lap with the one Peter had given her. "Oh, and, hey—" She looks up again, brows raised high as if to convey a message of urgency; jabbing a finger in his direction, she doesn't bother to further elaborate.

Somehow, Loki seems to understand and he nods, reaching out to clasp Natasha by the back of her neck.

When he's gone and Natasha's knowing eyes have settled back to him, Peter can only chuckle nervously and say, "Ah—so—soup?"

* * *

Loki has always molded well to environments—not merely a manipulator of words but a craftsman in _all_ forms of deceit. Language and manner are as malleable as his form, easily distorted to fit setting. It was talent perfected when truth of skill in sorcery would have only further earned him scorn from those who would call themselves his brothers in arms. Asgardians cared not for trickery and the talents of his kind, though it was not magic itself they reviled, for the All-Father and even the Golden Son were known to utilize magic of their own.

For as long as memory serves, Loki had played with the guise of dutiful son and loyal brother. For a time, perhaps he had even believed in the roles—but the ever-present shadow of Thor had seeped into his core like the blackest of poisons and whatever love he might have held for the Golden Son had been overcome by the deepest and darkest of loathing for Odin, the greatest deceiver of all. Loki had played his part of second son and he had long accepted that his place would always fall short of Thor's grandeur—but Odin's deception had robbed him of what little pride he might have had left. Always, he had been made to feel lesser than he was—concealing wit and intelligence so that Thor might always shine brightest.

Thor, mightier and largest and bravest of them all—Loki had looked to his brother and he had _loved_ and he had felt _pride_ that he might someday be _king._ Though even now Thor was yet unsuited for the throne, Loki had never desired anything more than to see his brother upon it and serve him as he had been taught—and serve _willingly,_ for Loki had known that, though his mind was a curse to himself, it would aid him in time when Thor came to his right.

But it had, all of it, been a _lie._

What destiny Loki had been taught to believe was his to obey had in fact been crafted by the _true_ Lord of Lies—the All-Father had robbed him of choice and of voice when he had spirited him from the Jotun battlefield. Had molded him as a tool for Thor's employ—had offered illusion of warmth of family so that Loki might always remain faithful servant to the future King. Even _now_, Loki knows he could never rob the Golden Son of life—can only offer pain he knows will never amount to the suffering he'd endured when truth had been uncovered and the monster burrowed under Asgardian guise had revealed.

For millennia, Loki had whittled away at himself in efforts to make himself less of an outsider, cursing and hating his differences and his inability to be as every other Asgardian whose blood sung with the clashing steel of blades and the cries of the battlefield. Too often he'd thought he might go _mad_ with self-loathing—and so he'd crafted and molded layers between who he was and who he _needed _to be until he could scarcely decipher which thoughts belonged to Loki, Son of Odin, and _Just_ Loki.

Years taught him to form barriers between thoughts and barriers _yet_ between thoughts and spoken words. Even after falling—after descending into the darkness and falling under the hand of the Mad Titan—Loki had struggled to understand his own desires. He'd never known goals of his own that were not tethered to Thor—was a God of years beyond counting yet he was as much a stranger to himself as he had been to the father he had slain.

When he'd first taken the guise of Lucas Olson, he had done everything in his power to blend seamlessly into the role, adopting costume and speech and allowing charismatic smiles and flirtatious banter earn him his place at Natasha's side. It had been as simple as breathing—assuming façade a task more familiar than his heart. All his life, he has only learned to be what others needed him to be, and now, when there was only _himself_ to serve, Loki found himself _confounded_.

The Loki he is now, who has taken a mortal as his confident and lives amongst Midgardians as if he were of the realm, is as much a façade as all the others that have come before. Midgardian language blends with the archaic patterns of Asgardian speech, the vulnerability of Midgardian fabric replacing Asgardian garb even when it is unnecessary. It is a _guise _and he _knows _this—yet it is too easy to forget that he was once _Loki of Asgard_ and briefly _Loki the Jotun_. When Natasha looks up at him, he is only Loki—neither God nor Mortal nor Asgardian nor anything else. Only Loki.

Only ever _Loki._

Though secrets remain a constant between them, their weight is never felt. Absent thought, words spill as if from the depths of him, summoned at a mortal's glance. Natasha accepts them with the reckless disregard of one who does not understand that Loki has ever been the sole guardian of his silver tongue—that honesty is a language foreign even in regards to his own self. Sometimes he wonders if Natasha might know him more than he knows himself—but the very idea is infuriating and sparks the briefest of hatred within him for the only soul who has ever seen through his schemes.

Not so long ago, he had resigned himself to the service of his brother, future King and the Golden Son of Asgard. His place had always been reserved under the great shadow of Thor.

But he had _shed_ the shackles of such fate. Never again would he bound to another.

So why then was he so compelled to bind the mortal to _him?_

* * *

When Loki returns to the Tower it is earlier into the next morning. He follows the familiar energy pulse of Natasha's reactor to her workshop and frowns when he materializes behind her and sees she is slumped over an intricate piece of armor. As he steps silently to one side he sees that she has a thick set of goggles over her eyes, one of his scarves wrapped loosely around her shoulders and pulled up over her nose to cover the lower half of her face. She'd abandoned her bulky sweater for something a little more form-fitting and less likely to impede her work, but the sweatpants and sheep-skin boots remain.

With a soft snort and a half-smile, he reaches out to tuck a finger into a fold of the scarf and tug it down. Natasha looks up with a start, though her hands remain impressively still so as not to cause damage to the armor. Releasing the tools from her hands with a clatter, Natasha swivels in her chair to face him, removing her goggles with a grin.

"Sorry," she laughs, plucking at the scarf almost self-consciously. "I was cold."

He doesn't comment on the scarf, instead reaching to adjust it over her shoulders more evenly. "If I am to relinquish use of magic for the next few days, you should not be permitted to use science."

Natasha snorts, smiling incredulously. "It's not '_using'_ science," she laughs, swatting his hands away. "And if you aren't using magic then how did you get down here without my noticing?"

"No magic. No science," Loki says, arching a brow and daring her to argue. When she seems prepared to do just that, he amends, "Starting _now_."

She only feigns defiance for a moment, glower betrayed by the grin that teases the corner of her mouth. With an exasperated sigh, she rolls her eyes and pushes herself off the chair, following him out of the workshop without further complaint. She's more interested in cracking various joints from her hands to her neck than making small talk and Loki doesn't withhold his grimace of disgust, though that only seems to encourage her.

"You look better," he comments when they're in the elevator and Natasha has run out of joints to abuse. The flush that has persisted in her cheeks for the past couple of days is gone and she no longer radiates a warmth he can feel just by standing beside her. Her eyes are clearer and her words are sharper, so overall he feels it is safe to presume that whatever illness had gripped her has past.

"You, too," she says, looking up at him in consideration.

He snorts and wisely chooses not to correct the assessment—feels marginally better after a night of rest but still feels the heaviness of the strain he has put on his magic. He does not want to consider what it might mean that he would never suffer another to live if they were to see him so weakened—yet finds no greater reprieve than with only Natasha to bear witness to his vulnerability.

"Your boy was acting stranger than usual yesterday," he says as the elevator delivers them to the penthouse, shaking away unwanted thoughts. Out of habit, he leads them to the bar and immediately procures two mugs from the cupboard before he sets himself to the task of brewing two cups of coffee.

"Yeah," Natasha sighs, hefting herself onto the bar, reaching down idly to roll her sweatpants up to her knees. "He literally stayed until I fell asleep."

Loki hums, but he forgets his response when he turns to face her as the coffee maker begins whirring with activity. She seems distracted by thought, fiddling with the scarf until it has come undone, lips pursed and quirked to one side. He finds himself smiling at the sight of her—and then the coffee begins to pour a steady stream into the mug and the sound and the smell seems to awaken him at once.

When the coffee is poured, Natasha blinks and straightens expectantly. Loki frowns at the mug as he takes it and faces her—sees her hand reaching for the mug and moves forward, absent any thought but a single memory, brighter than all the rest.

Instead of delivering the mug, he shifts his hand out of the way to set the mug beside her on the bar as his free hand reaches out to grasp at one end of the scarf dangling around her shoulders. Natasha's hand closes to a fist in the air between him and for once there is no hint of a smile on her lips or in her eyes as she looks up at him. He takes the other end of the scarf, looping the length once around his hands, and steps closer so that he is standing between her knees and her fist rests weakly against his chest.

" … Is this a good idea?" Natasha asks quietly, a quiver of _something_ in her tone. Her eyes are wide and there is no denying the anxiety behind them—it brings a smile to his lips that only widens as her anxiety seems to grow.

Tugging gently at the ends of the scarf, he shifts closer, looking directly into her eyes. "_None_ of this has been a good idea."

A slight grin flickers at her lips and when she huffs a laugh Loki realizes he's close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against his lips.

* * *

It had always been a series of extremes.

When Howard was away, the manor was empty of life—yet somehow _safer._ When he deigned to grace them with his presence, things were _loud_ and suddenly _dangerous._ It was the only way she knew to describe her home—before Howard's trips away became less frequent and he grew to tire of an idealistic daughter who would not be bent to his will simply because old age had made it convenient for him to acknowledge her at last. As Howard's presence became a constant, the manor seemed to come _alive._

Maria seemed to come _alive_.

Docile, soft-spoken, well-mannered Maria Stark …

When Howard had retired at last from years spent searching the depths of the sea for his lost champion, it had not been to a home he'd returned to. He had been a _stranger_ and suddenly and so _ferociously_ Maria had revolted against his presence. _Overnight_ Natasha had lost the mother she'd never really understood; overnight had seen Maria become someone else completely, fueled by hatred and years or resentment.

There were times when Natasha hated both her parents with a passion as powerful as the violence in their words. Hated them for every jolt of fear in her gut when she heard something clatter somewhere distantly in the manor and imagined it might be her mother, once again, taking to whatever was at hand that could be hurled at her father. Hated them when raised voices drowned out the blaring records she played while working with her iron-men—the terrible, _awful_ bellows of her father as he hurled insults and curses just as viciously as Maria hurled vases and platters at his head.

She hated and hated and _hated _and she _vowed_ she would _never_ be like them.

* * *

Ultimately, the decision comes down to coffee.

Or, at least, that's what she decides she'll tell Pepper if she is ever pressed.

Humor leaves them the moment lips meet and she doesn't know who moved to close the distance because it doesn't matter—electric flames searing a path through her chest and _all the universe_ seems _still_ while her heart threatens to _erupt_. She reaches out and takes his face between her hands, pulling him closer—feels when Loki's hands have abandoned the scarf, clutching at the back of her head, fingers digging into her scalp almost painfully. Every muscle in her body seems to vibrate and her stomach churns—but she doesn't _dare_ move for fear that she might awaken, savors the almost violent press of unmoving lips and scorching heat in her belly.

It's overwhelming—feels a rush of something that seems like _relief _and something _more_ that's so frighteningly, ridiculously, _powerful_ she thinks she might be swept away by it _completely_.

Then—lips part and the first taste threatens to _destroy_ her—steals the breath from her lungs so that she feels as if she's _drowning _and it seems to her that she has been waiting all her life for this taste and this warmth and the natural way their mouths accommodate each other. Loki pushes forward, forcing her knees further apart, the tiered counter of the bar digging into her back. His mouth moves hungrily against hers, teeth clamping down on her bottom lip and tugging as if in efforts to steal it away before pressing forward to claim the upper lip like he can't decide which to favor—and Natasha is _breathless_ and almost too _dazed_ to keep up, gasping recklessly when she can find room to breathe. Blunt nails dig into the firm slope of his cheekbones, dragging down hard enough to leave marks—

"Oh—my frickin' _eyes!"_

Loki tears away so quickly she is too stunned to register the cause for the interruption, only to mourn the loss as her hands are left clutching at empty air.

"Parker," Loki mutters in a tone that promises violence. "Now is _not_ the time."

"Y-yeah … I … a-ah … _see …_ that … "

Her brain refuses to function for lack of oxygen and it takes several breaths for her to shake herself to attention, glancing over her shoulder to see Peter standing awkwardly by the elevator, flushed scarlet from cheeks to neck. Sighing, she sits forward and tries to will her pounding heart to relax so she can hear something other than its pulsation in her ears.

"Pete," Natasha exhales, licking her lips unconsciously. "You … _really_ need to go. _Now_."

Nodding furiously, Peter spins to rush back into the elevator, moaning a "oh thank God" when he finds the doors open and awaiting him. As the doors shut, Natasha releases another shaky breath and tries to search herself for the flicker of regret she'd always half-expected. When she finds nothing but an embarrassing _giddiness_ in her belly she frowns, looking back to Loki.

Immediately, large hands move to cradle her neck, thumbs pressed against the ridge of her jaw as if intent to leave a mark. Loki's mouth is on hers again—still for a beat—before parting just enough for her bottom lip to fit between his. He inhales loudly through his nose and she can feel the rise of his shoulders as an arm settles around her, pulling her close. She grins when his lips abandon hers to press a closed-mouthed kiss to the jut of her cheekbone, reaching up to wind her arms around his neck.

"Hey," she huffs, laughing quietly when his attention shifts back to her mouth, forcing to speak around his lips. "Maybe we should—move somewhere more—priv—"

The word is barely off her tongue before she feels the dip of her mattress replace the rigidity of the bar beneath her. With a start, she rears back to blink at their new surroundings—sees they are in her room, the brilliance of the early morning pouring in through the windows almost indecently.

When she looks back to Loki she sees him grinning; her mouth moves to mimic the expression even while her brows furrow in bemusement.

Then, remembering, her eyes narrow and she swallows back her grin. "Hey, you, no magi—" Loki moves forward and she finds herself on her back, Loki above her, open mouth at her throat threatening to rob her of clear thought. Natasha laughs, crinkling her nose when she feels the press of a wet tongue along the underside of her jaw. "Okay—_fine_."

It occurs to her when she reaches for the zipper of her jacket that of _all_ the days for this to happen, it had to be the day following nearly a week of illness when she probably looked like some rabid _homeless_ person—sexy sweatpants and _all._ She toes off her Uggs while she works out of her jacket, Loki offering no aid at all as he balances above her on elbows and knees, taking explicit interest at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her hands falter at the hem of her shirt as teeth clamp down on the muscle of her shoulder and she feels another jolt course through her belly.

"Sunnova—" She gasps and Loki draws away to flash a grin before leaning in to pull her into swift kiss.

Without warning, he sits back and Natasha is left just as dazed as earlier, head flopping back against the mattress. She opens her eyes when she feels hands settle on her hips, regaining enough of her senses to arch her back off the bed so she can slip her shirt over her head. Her eyes meet Loki's and she grins when she finds him staring in open appreciation.

Fingers curl underneath the elastic of her sweatpants and Natasha remembers with a start, "Wait, wait—Loki, _wait._" She sits up quickly and Loki's hand still at her hips, brow furrowing in confusion. She rolls her eyes, smacking his still very clothed chest. She snorts, "Condom. We need a condom."

Loki's frown deepens. "What?"

When he doesn't move away, Natasha shoves at his chest lightly, gesturing absently, "Condom. In the bathroom. Get one."

Loki continues to stare, confusion giving way to annoyance. "A what?"

"_What?"_

"What?"

Natasha searches his expression for any indication he might be joking but Loki is giving her _nothing._ She groans, smacking him again, "Condom! A condom! I haven't been on the pill for a while so you need to get a _condom_."

"Pill?"

"Oh my _God_," Natasha moans, throwing her head back in exasperation. She tries to move away—can't get far between him and the bed—and tries shoving hard at his chest, to no avail. "Loki! _Move_!"

"I do not understand—"

She resists the urge to tug at her own hair in frustration, flopping back against the bed with a groan. "_Dude_, I'm not into having Demi-God babies, _thanks_. We need a _condom_." She squints up at him, nose curled in distaste. "Don't they use contraception where you come from?"

Loki blinks—says with a casual shrug, "Not generally."

She stares—searches his expression until she's certain he's not kidding—then grunts, "So—wait, what? Are you telling me you have kids somewhere with someone in some other realm?"

"Hundreds across the centuries," Loki replies easily, clearly not comprehending the issue. "I'm a God. It's what we do."

"Holy—" Natasha gapes up at Loki, momentarily horrified. At his puzzled look, she shakes head, holding up her hands in concession. "Okay. Whatever. I can be cool with that. But _we_ are using protection." Squirming to move out from beneath him, she scowls. "Move it. I'm grabbing a condom."

Bemused, Loki sits up to allow her room to scramble out from between his legs. She ducks into the bathroom where she keeps her stock and grabs a small handful before returning to the bedroom. She flicks one of the squares at Loki's chest while she deposits the rest into the drawer of her nightstand. When she looks back at Loki, he's frowning down at the square between his fingers distrustfully.

"This is seriously killing the mood," she sighs, wiggling out of her sweatpants and kicking them away. Clambering rather ungracefully back onto the bed, she moves to kneel in front of Loki, snatching the package away so she can rip it open and show him the latex ring. "This is going on your dick."

Loki doesn't even move to take it. "No."

Natasha balks. "Excuse me?"

Glaring at the condom, Loki snarls, "I refuse to wear such a—_no."_

"Uh—_yeah_, you are," Natasha counters, scowling. "Unless you are seriously going to turn down a little nookie because you're a stubborn ass."

"I don't know what this 'nookie' is, but I am not putting that on."

"Loki!"

"Natasha."

Natasha growls, gritting her teeth in annoyance. "Dude—you're seriously _this_ close to blue ballin' it. Put the damn condom on!"

Loki's glare dissolves as it shifts from the condom to her. "I do not see why it is necessary. It is an honor to bear the children of a God."

Natasha stares. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"About the condom? Yes," Loki deadpans, reaching out to pluck the condom from her hand. "About bearing my children? No." The ring dissolves between his fingers, but before Natasha can react, Loki's hands cradle her face and he moves forward for a quick kiss, murmuring, "We won't need that. I promise."

She should argue, but then Loki has her on her back and he isn't using magic to divest himself of clothing, allowing her to enjoy the view as pale skin is revealed, the contours of hard muscle illuminated by the morning sun. He grins all the while, green eyes bright, and Natasha reaches behind her to undo the clasp of her bra she tries not to think about the fact that the room has automatically warmed to accommodate her lack of clothing—because thinking about JARVIS right now was just _weird _as fuck and _no._

A cool palm at her cheek draws her attention and she watches breathlessly as Loki dips down to press a kiss to her collar. He reaches to slide her necklace out of the way and press another kiss and Natasha holds her breath as a flicker of unease grips her—has never felt insecure of the reactor over her heart yet has never appreciated the attention it garnered from lovers. But Loki doesn't pay it any more mind than he does the patch of skin above it, lips ghosting over the circle of light before descending to the hollow just below.

Exhaling shakily as his tongue and teeth move to map a pattern over her ribs, she reaches down to take his face and drag him up for another kiss. His body aligns over hers as his mouth molds over hers, his hips settling between her thighs as his forearms brace the brunt of his weight. Her fingers trace a path down to his throat as her other hand glides through the sleek black hair to rest at the base of his skull. His tongue is full and wet in her mouth and she tightens her grip on his hair, expression flickering with a frown when the taste of him seems to leave her chest _aching_ with longing for something she cannot name. She never remembers closing her eyes but she squeezes them tighter yet as she opens her mouth wider, chest and belly welling with emotion and desire.

She's never taken her time—always eager for reward and never interested in much more—but between hungry, desperate kisses, there is no need to rush and everything is both familiar and _new_ and she thinks it should terrify her that when they move, they move _together_—and he's inside her and all around her, arms a barricade around her head as he rocks against her in a rhythm that should not feel so well-practiced. Her hands flutter from his heart to his ribs as if they can't decide where to rest. Loki's teeth form a light clamp over her jaw, nose pressing against her cheek—his breath is cool against her skin and when he presses his tongue to the underside of her jaw she shivers with each puff of breath and brings a hand to clutch tightly at the back of his head.

Then—his arms move to cradle her head and his face burrows into her neck, his body flush with hers until she doesn't know if she could ever tell their bodies apart.

And it could be an eternity or it could be minutes—but later, with Loki collapsed atop her, hands burrowed deeply in his hair, she sighs and she knows that the memory of his _skin_ and his _weight_ and his _taste_ and his _scent_ is something she can _never_ forget.

Something she will _never_ regret.

* * *

Some days, Maria and Howard seemed to hate each other as much as Natasha hated _them_ and it was something _beyond_ resentment, _beyond_ anything Natasha could understand. It was something dark and ugly and something that festered between them with every day and night spent under the same roof.

Some days, the memory of a shared love seemed enough.

Most days it wasn't, though.

And Maria was Stark in name only.

Whatever bond might have been forged between mother and daughter in the years of Howard's absence became all but obsolete as Natasha was forced watch in silence as her mother refused to walk away from a relationship that was slowly destroying whatever semblance of life might have remained within her.

And Natasha wouldn't have given it _all_—would have happily forsaken all if her mother had only once conveyed a desire for escape.

But Maria stayed.

And every day Natasha hated her more for it.

* * *

**End Notes: **Sorry for any mistakes. I'm so incredibly not in the right state to be editing, but if I don't do it now I'll put this off until the end of the week. Anyhoo, sorry if this chapter was a little everywhere, because it was.


	15. Something in the Way You Move

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Dealing with emotions the Stark and Asgardian way.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen:

_Something in the Way You Move_

_(Makes Me Feel Like I Can't Live Without You)_

She comes to consciousness slowly and the first thing she is aware of is her body—warm and heavy and weightless and somehow new and well-worn. She thinks she could sink into her mattress and disappear completely—forget about everything else because nothing was worth the price of opening her eyes and accepting reality when her mind was still muggy with sleep and each breath was deep and languid and so _gratifying_. The tranquility lasts only for a second, however—before she is suddenly and harshly aware of a light chill slipping in through a gap in her cocoon of comforter and sheets, catching the sensitive skin of her side. Then, it's as if, by virtue of her acknowledgment, the chill spills across her belly and seeps into muscle and bone and then she's _awake_ and scowling and—

Something heavy settles across her chest over the comforter—she realizes she'd been fidgeting and squirming to escape the draft when she automatically stills. Scowl deepening, she opens her eyes but sees only darkness—blankets and comforter and pillows stacked around and atop her body like a prison. A very lovely, very comfortable and _warm_ prison. Which she would very much not like to leave. Ever.

Twitching her left leg out experimentally, she's mildly surprised when it meets resistance. Confused, she nudges the firm barrier but it does not budge.

And then she hears a sigh, heavy and exasperated and familiar. Her comfortable cocoon is peeled back and she's cringes with the expectation of bright sunlight—but there's only more darkness and the faint glow of her reactor beneath several layers of sheets.

Natasha blinks several times but her eyes do not adjust until the room lights slowly awaken to their dimmest setting and something heavy shifts beside her, jostling the bed, until she sees a great shadow hovering above.

It takes only a second for her to recognize the familiar coolness radiating from the person above her—and then her memory returns and she realizes that _no,_ she'd not been dreaming. She was in bed. With Loki. And that was awesome. But also potentially _not._

It was too much, too soon, and she was not nearly awake enough to deal with any of that.

The lights brighten a fraction more and Loki's face is illuminated just enough—groggy and grumpy and adorable. Her scowl dissolves as she gets a better look at him sleepily glaring down at her. And then she sees—

"Oh my God—your _hair_!"

Loki's hair is relatively tame by 'bed-head' standards, but given that she has only ever seen it perfectly slicked back, the sight of it sponged up and poking out at odd angles is too incredibly precious not to laugh at.

So she does—loudly.

A cool palm settles over her eyes, covering him from sight, and the arm across her collar shifts away, elbow bumping her chin in the process. She feels Loki brace his arm next to her head, causing the mattress to dip as his body aligns above her own, only thin sheets between them. She's still chuckling—more so because when she tries to remove the hand from her face it won't be budged—when she feels teeth nip gently at the patch of skin just under her ear.

She shuts up completely, then, going absolutely still while wet tongue follows the claim of teeth. Even the breath is still in her lungs—until Loki's mouth moves to the soft hollow under her jaw, and then her heart drops to her gut and then up again to pound furiously against her sternum. She reaches up blindly to lay her hand over his shoulder—possibly hold Loki to task as his mouth marks a trek down the column of her throat and she arches her neck further to one side to accommodate—but her brain seems incapable of communicating demand and her hand slips and ghosts over the length of arm to elbow, then back up, fingers dancing feather-light over the contours of flexing biceps.

She realizes that perhaps minutes have passed before Loki finally removes his hand from her eyes, evidently satisfied after efficiently silencing her. He shifts his body to her left, so he's only half atop her and settles his hand low on her belly, face hovering above her just enough for her to make out his grin.

"Funny," she deadpans, sneering up at him.

"Effective," he says, grin widening as he dips forward to plant a swift kiss on the sheets, directly over the reactor. "Are you complaining?"

She catches his jaw between her hands to bring his face level with hers and replies with a quick and obnoxiously loud peck to his lips, smushing his cheeks in the process. Loki chuckles and dips forward to rest forehead and nose along hers, eyes bright even in the relative darkness.

Shifting her hands to his temples, she murmurs, "What time is it?"

"I don't think it's that late," he replies, shrugging carelessly as his eyes shut. With a heavy exhale, as if his little demonstration had sapped what remained of his energy, he lowers himself on his side next to her, angling one arm under his head while the other stretches to drape across her waist. She feels his face nestle into the crook of her shoulder, his breathing tickling her neck and she sighs quietly, dropping one hand to his shoulder while the other burrows in his hair, mussing it more.

Looking over to her right, she sees that the windows are completely opaque and figures JARVIS must have taken the liberty of tinting the windows. There's a clock on the nightstand to her left but she feels too sluggish—too comfortable—to disturb their positions just to check the time. Still, as the minutes tick by and a strange tranquility seems to settle over the room, she can't decide if time is moving too quickly or too slowly—feels oddly detached from the rest of the world, sitting somewhere outside of time, and it's both thrilling and terrifying.

Her mind drifts to earlier—is certain that no more than _hours_ could have passed since …

Shit.

Shit—_shit._

Her heart picks up its pace as anxiety slowly trickles into her belly and she hurriedly shuts her eyes—as if by doing so she could somehow ward away unwelcome thoughts. Her hands tighten their grip unconsciously as her mind begins to wander despite her best efforts to retain the bliss of mere moments ago.

"Stop."

Natasha's thoughts freeze at the quietly mumbled word against her skin and she relaxes before she truly registers Loki's meaning. "What?"

With a quiet grunt, Loki shifts—and then moves away, sitting up and massaging a palm down his face. "You think too much."

Mourning the loss, Natasha tries not to sulk and fails, huffing, "This coming from _you_?"

Loki doesn't immediately reply and she watches as he seems to work up his energy to throw back the covers. For a moment, she expects him to slip out of bed—but then he sits higher on the bed so he can throw back the sheets beneath him and slip under the several (probably unnecessary) layers of bedclothes. She flinches when his freezing toes graze her calf as he stretches out his legs, sliding down so he is lying on his back once more. He turns onto his side to face her, propping himself on elbow, but he seems to hesitate to reach out and touch, hand lying flat on the narrow gap of bedding between them.

Natasha is tempted to close the distance, and her desire might be transparent on her face, but Loki only says, "You overthink things."

"It's not—I'm _not—" _She sits up, bracing herself on her elbows and scowling down at the gap between them.

She thinks she probably sounds like an idiot and she wishes that they could skip this entire bit and pretend—just _pretend—_but she's never been so lucky and she feels the pressure of much needed words weighing down on her; terrifying not only because it's something she's never spoken of, but because she doesn't really understand the almost irrational and overwhelming _fear_ bubbling in her gut. She doesn't know how to put words to something she's only ever _felt_ but never really _considered._

Exhaling in efforts to relieve herself of the sudden tension stringing her body, her breath comes out short and forced and _anything_ but relaxed. Her eyes dart across the folds and creases of the sheets across them without really seeing, brows pinched together as she mutters tightly through stiff lips, "It's just … this—it's—don't expect—" She grimaces with each aborted sentence and her lips purse as she glares balefully at the bedding. "You know I'm not in … ah … "

"I know."

Her stomach does a strange, fluttering, thing, and her right cheek seems to have developed a twitch. Loki's words sweep over her and she continues, "And … I mean—you're not—_either_—so … "

It's like her mind is drawing blanks—every argument stripped from her tongue because where she'd expected and feared the abrupt fizzling of attraction she feels only renewed interest that's blossomed with an intensity that seems it could never be sated. Her belly twists and churns and flutters with the memory of every cool touch and the taste of his mouth and—

It occurs to her just how long it's been since she was last with someone and the realization is followed by the knowledge that the length of time since she'd shared a bed with a nameless lover is in direct correlation to the date of Loki's return from Asgard. She tries to think of any instances when she might have taken opportunity to relieve tension in the company of another but there is only work and work and _Loki._

It was a coincidence, surely.

It meant _nothing, _really.

But now _Loki_ was in her bed and—and while Natasha had never been terribly opposed to revisiting with past lovers, it never _meant_ anything. _They_ never meant anything.

But this was _Loki_ and—

When Loki's silence stretches for too long, her stomach twists and she thinks for a moment she might be sick when she realizes he hasn't really answered her, though unspoken, question.

Grimacing, she looks up at him again—asks, cautiously, "Right?"

Loki snorts, completely unperturbed, rolling his eyes in amusement as he leans forward to press his brow to her temple. "There are many whom I would see to an eternity of suffering," he says, holding her gaze. "_You_ are not among them."

In an instant, her fears are gone, replaced by incredulity. Her mouth twitches to an uncertain smile and she squints dubiously at him from the corner of her eye—says, "Uh—that's … good." When Loki laughs, reaching a hand to cup her cheek, angling her face towards his so their brows are aligned, she smiles back hesitantly in return. Still a little unsure whether to be unsettled or flattered by his declaration, she adds, "Ah—same. For you. I … guess."

Loki nods as if that were the correct response, smug smile in place as he pulls away. Shaking her head to try and displace the bizarreness, she lowers herself to her back. Loki remains on his side, this time positioning himself so that his head rests on the pillow above her head. His chin digs into her scalp uncomfortably and she shifts closer to his body so her head is fit under his jaw, her shoulder and arm flush with his chest, arching her back when Loki moves to slip an arm beneath her. As arms circle loosely around her she tries not to think about how this shouldn't feel more intimate than the actual act of sex—suddenly incredibly and terrifyingly aware of every inch of her body and his in a way that she hadn't earlier.

Forcing herself to new distraction, she settles a hand hesitantly over the arms about her waist and frowns. She adjusts the arm awkwardly wedged between them so she can reach out, fingers ghosting along the underside of Loki's upper arm. His skin is cool to the touch and when she angles her face so her cheek is pressed to his throat, she realizes that everywhere their body's touch Loki's skin seems to remain at a constant chill.

Without thinking, she blurts, palming over the stretch of muscle from shoulder to arm, "Do you _ever_ get warm? Or are you always this temperature?"

The steady rise and fall of Loki's chest falters and the arms around stiffen. When he speaks, his Adam's apple bobs against her cheek.

" … Does it bother you?"

"Just curious," she says, tracing the length of his arm from elbow to shoulder. When Loki doesn't relax, she tries to crane her head back to see his expression but the angle makes it so she can only see the barest hint of stubble along the underside of his jaw.

With a heavy sigh, Loki pulls back so he can meet her gaze; she tightens her hand over his arms when she feels them begin to slip away and he stills. With a frown and a wary tone, he says, "It … expends magic to sustain this form, but it is also a defense mechanism for my body. I was not always … _aware_ of my Jotun form, as I've told you."

His eyes flicker over her face as if searching but she's not sure what he might be looking for—wonders for a moment if this is _insecurity _she's seeing in Loki, but dismisses the thought immediately because Loki has never been anything if not confident. She frowns. "If you need magic to hold this form, why do you think it was so long before you realized … you know."

He doesn't answer immediately, studying her almost suspiciously, frown deepening.

Then, "I think … that it is like breathing. It occurs naturally until it is brought to your attention, and only then does it become apparent that it is something you _control._ Sustaining this form requires magic, yes, but breathing also requires energy—yet you do it involuntarily, without conscious thought."

Natasha nods, expression reflecting her fascination. She asks, carefully, to make sure she understands, "So a … _defense_ mechanism?"

His brows draw together and he's watching her like he can't decide what he's seeing. Then, he extracts an arm from around her waist and holds it up between them. She watches in amazement as blue seeps from the tips of his fingers, across his hand and wrist, to his arm, stopping just above his elbow. Removing her hand from his shoulder, she reaches to twine their fingers and nearly shivers at the unexpected _severity_ in the difference between his Asgardian form and that of his Jotun skin. It is as if she had driven her hand into a mound of snow and the chill immediately numbs her hand and spreads down her forearm—yet she doesn't remove her hand, even as the artery at her wrist begins to throb.

"I do not ... I do not like to look upon myself in Jotun form, so I make efforts to conceal it," Loki murmurs, keeping his hand perfectly still in hers, fingers splayed and stiff as if to maintain as little contact between their hands as possible. "Yet I would not have it be forgotten."

Natasha hums thoughtfully, nodding. "That's why you're always cold."

"Yes," Loki says quietly as the Jotun blue dissolves back to pale Asgardian flesh, long fingers at last curling over her knuckles.

"Huh." For once, his skin almost feels _hot_, by comparison, and Natasha blinks, amazed.

"If you would prefer—"

"That is _… awesome_," Natasha says before she can help herself even as Loki takes his hand back to replace his arm around her waist. Grimacing, she cranes her neck back to smile up at Loki sheepishly, reaching still numb fingers to his face and smoothing her palm over his cheek apologetically. "Sorry. You were gunna say?"

Loki rolls his eyes but the seriousness that had settled over his features melts away like the blue in his skin when he smiles. "Nothing," he murmurs with a quiet snort of amusement, leaning forward to close his mouth over the pulse of her throat, just under the curve of her jaw.

As they settle back into their previous position, unexpected lethargy wins out and before she can let her mind wander again, her eyes are slipping shut and sleep is moving in to claim her.

* * *

"Don't usually get a lot of visitors out in these parts."

Bruce starts at the unexpected voice and he feels his heart jump to his throat, pounding dangerously. All at once, he is reminded of the winter chill of the north as it grips him in its startling embrace, prickling at flesh and numbing muscle over aching bone. Doubling over, Bruce clutches at the snow with the desperation of a man on the very precipice of sanity, bare hands immediately deadened by the cold.

"You alright? Didn't mean to spook ya."

Bruce gasps, willing his heart to slow—thinks he might be sick when his vision continues to swim and his skin feels too thin—

"Y-yeah," he rasps, swallowing heavily, head bowed over snow. "Yes. I'm … fine. Sorry—I didn't … " Slowly, feeling no more in control but finding the strength to sit up and face the intruder, he blinks blearily at the smudgy shape of a man standing in the distance. "Is this your property, or … ?"

"No more mine than it is yours, I reckon," the other man replies.

Bruce nods, squeezing his eyes shut as he presses two fingers to his opposite wrist and focuses on counting the erratic beats of his pulse to help him regain his composure. It is harder and harder with every near-awakening of the Hulk to force the beast back to slumber and Bruce dreads the day when the strength of his will might no longer be enough to leash the creature.

The crunching of snow under foot distracts Bruce from his thoughts and he blinks his eyes open in surprise, grateful when his vision remains steady and he can make out the details of the strange man approaching him. Bruce's immediate thought of the stranger is that of a woodsman—checkered red flannel straining over muscular arms and chest, jeans worn and frayed and tucked into heavy laborer's boots. The man regards him for a moment with almost idle curiosity before turning his attention to their surroundings, squinting eyes as if he could see into the depths of the forest and through the haze brought on by the snow.

Bruce frowns. "Ah … I'm sorry—did—was there something you needed?"

The man snorts, pausing to frown down at a patch of snow. "From you? Prob'ly not."

"Then—?"

"These woods are dangerous," the man explains as if speaking to a slow child. When he looks back to Bruce, he is scowling. "Heard there was a nasty li'l thing runnin' 'round these parts. Y'should be careful."

Scoffing at the idea that any harm could possibly come to _him_ while the Hulk was still capable of defending them both, he mutters, "I can take care of myself."

"Scrawny thing like you?" The man seems amused, grunting, "I'm sure you can."

Shaking his head, Bruce groans as he pushes himself to his feet, marveling at his own idiocy for venturing into the Canadian woods in this weather.

As he turns to go, the man calls out, "So you haven't seen it then?"

Bruce sighs, looking back to the man wearily. "Seen what?"

"The creature."

There's a purposefulness to his tone that sets Bruce on alert, but upon closer inspection, he does not see the man armed with anything more than his bare hands—not that any weapons would be sufficient against the Hulk. " … Are you _hunting_ it?"

He doesn't want to think about the prospect of being hunted—the very _idea_ turns his stomach—because if he is _hunted_ he must have given _cause _to be hunted, meaning …

He has spent the last couple of days isolated in the woods, away from anyone who might come to harm under the Hulk's wrath—but he cannot remember a trigger; has no memory of losing control …

"Somethin' like that," the man replies. "You seen it?"

Bruce shakes his head as his breath quickens, eyes wide as he sets his gaze to the snow. "You say '_creature'…_"

Had he changed without knowing?

Had the beast taken control in the brief moments Bruce allowed himself to rest … ?

"Well, _yeah._ Sure ain't no grizzly or bobcat. Locals callin' it a monster or somethin'."

Bruce swallows past the bile that has risen to his throat and his heart stutters. "Locals?"

"There's a small town not too far out from here—"

"I didn't know there was a town nearby," Bruce says, speaking to himself more than the other.

"Might not spot it on a map," the man says. "It's small."

Bruce murmurs, "I didn't know … "

He was losing control.

(Had he lost control?)

He could feel the Hulk awaken—prevailing presence—so much anger—so much unadulterated _power—_

"You alright, man? I didn't catch your name."

Scowling, Bruce grits his teeth, hands curling to fists. "I didn't give it."

His ears are ringing and his heart is beating—_pounding—_against his ribs so viciously he hears them _crack_—feels muscles rip and shred over fracturing bone.

"So it's like that, then …" The man's voice sounds so distant. Bruce tries to latch onto it, but he is rapidly losing coherent thought … "Listen—I'm no police or fed, but I'm not lookin' for no trouble and you won't wanna be lookin' for no trouble with _me, _so—"

Bruce chokes on a laugh as blood wells in his throat and muscles tear and heal and tear and heal and his skin is _on fire _and his bones are _shattering _and _splintering_ within his body. "Trust me," he gasps, "I'm not looking for any trouble—that's why … I'm out here—to get away—I just want to be left alone—I just need to be … alone."

"Well, I can't do that. I'm not goin' anywhere till I've caught the beastie, so—"

It is everything Bruce can do not to fall to his knees, but only the barest hint of a pinch at his brow belays even a fraction of the agony he is suffering. Darkness settles over his sight like a veil, fluttering for a moment and granting him glimpses of reality—but soon sound becomes muffled and—

"You alright, bub? You're lookin' a little—"

—then darkness prevails and Bruce feels a growl ripping from his throat and muscles and bones mend and flesh thickens.

"... Sunnuvabitch."

* * *

The rest of the day is spent in various stages of waking up to familiarize themselves with each other's body, then giving in to lazy slumber.

When she awakens again, she's completely lost track of the hour and the windows are clear, allowing the warm sun to filter in. She registers this sluggishly through bleary eyes—realizes that she's observing the early evening sky and jolts forward in surprise; strong arms hold her in place, however, and she only succeeds in straining her neck. Groaning, she relaxes back against her pillow, peering left to see Loki's face still tucked against her neck. She can't see his expression, only the jut of his jaw and the long arm draped carelessly over her collar, but something about Loki feels so … _different_. It was probably that the intimacy of their positions presented her with an illusion of vulnerability that seemed so out of place in regards to Loki. It wasn't as if his thoughts were any clearer, or as if any part of him was any easier to understand, really—yet there was an openness about him; a lack of the usual guardedness that cloaked even his most sincerest of smiles.

His eyes were always so expressive and bright, but what he did with his _body_—he controlled that so completely, revealing only what he desired to be seen. Yet, in his slumber, Loki seems so unnervingly … _vulnerable. _The way his body is positioned to face her, molded along her side, face buried into her neck and arms circled about her torso—it's as if he were a man starved of touch; starved of _affection._ It's such a _human_ thing and Loki is _never_ human—he's a _God_ and somehow the idea that a God should crave touch just as much as a human seems so … _wrong._ It's stranger yet for _Natasha_ who has always detested being smothered by others—had never learned to accept or expect affection from anyone but _Obi—_and _he _had utilized every _ounce_ of that affection to veil her from his intents.

Though she might allow herself to touch freely and frequently with friends, it has always been _she_ who initiates contact—never the other way around.

Except—except for Loki, whose large, cool, hands had become a familiar sensation upon neck and cheek. Who appeared to hold no regard for personal space and whom she seemed to gravitate towards unconsciously and naturally, without ever thinking twice about it—distracted by words and eyes and …

And she doesn't know what any of it means.

She stares up at the ceiling as she contemplates the man at her side, brows pinched and fingers idly tracing patterns along the arm thrown across her collar. Her attention shifts between the way his chest lifts to press against her side with every inhale, then the steady beat of his breath against her neck as he exhales.

_This_ … whatever this is—Loki was right. She shouldn't overthink it. Nothing had changed between them and they were neither of them the sentimental sort. She knows Loki won't expect anything more of her simply because he never _has. _She thinks about how easy it would be for Loki to take possession of her mind as Amora had done—and her own certainty that he never would. She doesn't know what that means—but she knows that regardless of what might happen between them, Loki would always continue being his scheming, _devious_, self whose loyalties, she knew, were only to himself—and _occasionally_ to her, if it was of convenience to his purpose—and they could continue … this … or they could forget it and it wouldn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

The familiar pattern against her neck falters and Natasha's hand stills as lips move against her throat in murmur. "What are you thinking about?"

Sniffing quietly, she smiles unsuccessfully up at the ceiling—finds it difficult to pull her mood out from somber thoughts—and asks, "What makes you think I'm thinking about anything?"

With a silent sigh, Loki draws away; unwinding arms from about her and shifting so he is lying on his back. He throws one arm across his eyes and mutters, "You're always thinking."

Natasha watches him with an incredulous frown as his breathing begins to even out again. "How can you sleep?"

"Easily."

"I don't think I could have ever expected this side of you," Natasha mutters in amazement, shaking her head. "I can't just stay in bed. We've been in bed all _day._ Literally."

Loki grunts from under his arm, "It would do no harm for us to take a day off from our … _scheming_, as you put it."

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Natasha sits up, stretching her spine as she reaches forward to where her toes form peaks from under the bedding. She snorts, "It's only scheming when _you_ do it. Your goals are _rarely_ noble. It's careful strategizing when _I_ do it."

"Of course," Loki mumbles, though he sounds like he's already well on his way back to sleep. After a second, he adds, "Regardless, it will not kill you to take a day off."

Natasha balks, twisting to look back at him, "A _day_? I've taken nearly the whole _week_."

"You were sick."

"That's not an _excuse_."

Loki snorts softly against his arm but doesn't comment. Natasha watches him for a moment with a frown, torn between remaining in bed alongside Loki or getting up and _doing_ something. She's slept more in the past day than she has all _year,_ it feels like, and while, _yes,_ her body feels fantastically refreshed, she _can't_ just lay around doing _nothing._ As fascinating as it is to map out Loki's skin with eyes and mouth, things start to get a little weird when her mind is turning to thoughts of Iron Woman or Extremis—or any number of the many projects she's currently undertaking.

Shaking her head, Natasha scans the bed and spots Loki's discarded shirt draped over the footboard. Instinctively, she leans forward—but she falters before reaching out, her stomach twisting uncomfortably. It's one thing to borrow the man's scarf on occasion, but it's something completely different to wear his shirt after having _sex_ with him. She's already broken several of the tacit rules she'd carefully abided all these years by not only _sleeping_ with someone, but sleeping with someone she can admit she _cares_ about, as well. She can't remember the last time she's spent all day in bed of her own volition, but she can say with total certainty that she's never spent all day in bed with someone _else._ At most, she'd share her bed with a lover once or twice in a night before carefully removing herself from the room and retreating to her workshop or study until Pepper ushered the nameless man from the building.

She still half expects there to be some sort of awkwardness between them, but the only thing that has changed is her sudden awareness that she might be treading dangerous territory and she can't risk forgetting herself in the process. She thinks she'd be willing to make Loki an exception to her usual rules—most of which don't really apply to him in the first place, anyway—but that doesn't mean she should forget that this is _temporary._

It's always temporary.

It's what she does when people are in danger of getting too close to her; she pushes them away. And it's not like with Pepper or Happy or Rhodey—it's not like having _friends_. It's when people push to know _all_ of her—when they start _expecting_ a certain kind of special treatment from her because of some presumed bond and she _can't._

Shaking these thoughts, Natasha scolds herself for getting so wound up over a _shirt_ and scowls, moving to crawl half over Loki's body so she can reach across him and scan the floor for her own clothing. She feels Loki's hand settle at her hip almost absently and glances back to see him with his face still hidden under his arm, dozing contentedly. Snatching her jacket, she sits back to slip it on and his hand falls to the mattress.

Zipping the jacket in place, she exhales loudly and drops her hands to her lap, staring ahead of herself for a moment, the patternless wall offering little in the form of mental stimulation yet capturing her interest all the same. Her mind itches to be set to a task because all this self-analyzing is going to drive her _insane_.

If she strips away all the doubt and fear she can see that what's really bothering her is the prospect of giving up something good before she's even properly had the chance to enjoy it. She hates that she can't just revel in whatever she has with Loki without jumping to thoughts of where it might lead and its inevitable end—wishes she could shut off her brain sometimes and just live in the _moment_ rather than always allowing the future to come crashing down upon her.

A cool hand settles over one of her own, drawing her back from her thoughts. She blinks down at their hands before looking up to narrow her eyes suspiciously at Loki. "Are you staring at me, creep?"

Loki's lips curl to a slow smile under his arm.

She can't help it; she laughs, bending forward to press a kiss to the dip under his sternum. She doesn't sit up immediately, smile turning listless as she rests her cheek to his bare chest, gaze drifting to stare at nothing and her mind begins to wander again.

It's not that she's _bored_—but she _is._ She doesn't think she's programmed for this level of indolence and it's slowly eating away at her attention span.

Loki's hand moves away from hers to settle over the back of her head, strong fingers massaging idly over her scalp.

Natasha puffs out a sigh, frowning. "This is _weird._ I feel like I should be_ doing_ something, like—I don't know—_anything."_

She can _feel_ Loki's eyes on her, though he seems resolved to keep his expression hidden under his arm. The only indication that he's awake and listening to her is the slow circles his fingers are mapping along the back of her skull.

With a groan, Natasha reluctantly sits up, immediately mourning the loss of his touch. With a scowl that's directed more towards herself and her inability to simply sit still and enjoy the gorgeous man before her, Natasha darts her eyes between the two nightstands that flank the bed.

Crawling across the bed to the nightstand closest to her, she tugs open the drawer, muttering, "Did I leave a tablet in here? Maybe I can—"

"Do I _bore_ you?"

Just as her hand closes over the tablet tucked away in the drawer, a hand circles around her elbow and tugs her back. She tries to catch herself instinctively on an elbow—which connects with Loki's side and earns her a soft grunt that is more surprise than pain. Grimacing, Natasha sits up and Loki drops his arm from his face to frown at her, massaging a palm idly over his ribs.

"You don't bore me," Natasha answers belatedly, scrunching her nose in distaste at the distinct sincerity of her tone which teeters too close to an edge of something that's emotional and dangerous.

Twisting around, she lowers herself back against his side and Loki immediately shifts his arm to make room for her. Head tucked comfortably at the crook of his shoulder, she props up her tablet on her stomach and his hand settles around her forearm, the thin material of her jacket doing little to block the light chill from his hold. She presses her thumb against the print-reader located at the top of the tablet next to the camera and holds the tablet so that it is level with her face for the facial recognition.

She's fiddling with the tablet for only a second before she realizes— "Oh, sunnuvabitch."

"What?" Loki grunts sleepily.

Natasha sighs, scowling at the tablet. "Nothing—just—my stylus …"

"Did you lose it again?" Loki asks—and he couldn't sound more disinterested if he _tried_.

"I didn't _lose_ it," Natasha bites back, swiping a finger irritably across the tablet screen to bring up the networks available to connect to via Zip-Sat.

Most of the things she'd rather be working on would require her to actually get up and access her personal computer, but despite her earlier complaints, there's something incredibly and disarmingly _cozy_ about lying about with Loki. It's reminiscent of the days when Rhodey could be coerced into taking time off to spend with Natasha, just the two of them. It's been so long since they had time apart from government business that Natasha had forgotten how much she'd missed having a friend to spend all day doing nothing with.

She feels something dull lightly scratch at her cheek and jerks away in surprise, pressing into Loki's side to retreat from the offensive sensation and glaring balefully—until she realizes it's Loki's hand … and between his fingers is a slender little stylus, wiggling almost playfully as if scribbling into the air.

Loki chuckles and Natasha blinks, cautiously plucking the stylus from his fingers. "Did you just—_magic_ this from somewhere?"

He doesn't answer but she doesn't need the confirmation; if she tilts the pen and allows it to catch the light from her tablet, she can see almost a glimmer of green along the black lacquered stylus. Loki had made her a stylus. And _personalized_ it, to boot.

Twisting, she plants a kiss to the center of his chest; her response is only a soft, breathy grunt. Loki's eyes remain closed and she grins, resting her chin on his chest for a moment to admire the slack expression.

She asks, with laughter in her tone, "I take it you're feeling better?"

Loki's chest rises with a deep inhale and when he opens his eyes, it's barely a sliver of green between rows of dark lashes. A lazy grin spreads across his lips to match hers and he brings a hand to the top of her head, smoothing back her hair from brow to nape in an almost affectionate caress. His eyes hold her gaze for what seems like an eternity—and it's an equal eternity before she hears him speak.

"_Much_ better."

* * *

"Sorry about that. I'm so—_sorry."_

Absent memory, Bruce can feel only misery and guilt for crimes only his imagination can conjure. He has seen the extent of the damage the Hulk can managed when unleashed, but there are no limitations to what the creature is capable of and so Bruce only fears and mourns for the day when at last his humanity is absorbed into the incredible and terrible beast.

"Quite a temper you've got there, bub."

The stranger settles a warm mug of what seems like tea but smells of something strongly alcoholic; yet, Bruce is not of a mind to complain, so he accepts the drink graciously with a watery smile as he brings the mug to his lips. The warmth of the cabin he'd awoken in is almost enough to lull him back to sleep but curiosity keeps his mind sharp.

Swallowing a gulp, Bruce grimaces at the taste and maintains the expression as he regards the rough surface fo the wooden table between them. "How—how did you even … ?"

"I'm a tough man to kill," the man explains—so casually that Bruce is rendered utterly speechless. While he can only gape up at the man, the stranger smiles—though the expression seems just as foreign on him as it feels on Bruce. "Name's Logan, by the way."

Blinking, he shakes himself back to attention and grunts, "Bruce. You can call me Bruce." Logan nods, raising his mug as if in salute, before taking it to his lips. Bruce watches him with interest, waiting for the man to settle his mug before inquiring, "Is this your cabin?"

Logan snorts, regarding tiny room with a smirk. The entire cabin seems to be fit into one room—kitchen, bed and sitting room—and it looks both unlived and cozy.

"Nah. Don't know _whose_ it is."

Bruce balks. "Wait. Are we—are we breaking _in_?"

Logan shrugs. "It's fine."

Strangely, as Bruce sips at his mug, he finds himself relaxing. Gazing down at the drink in wonder, he blinks before looking back to Logan. "What … what happened? I don't remember anything after—" With a start, he realizes, "How did you even get me to change _back_?"

Scowling, Logan sips angrily at his mug. "I _didn't_. Ya did that on yer own after you—ah—were done with me. I tracked ya after. Found ya naked and shiverin' in th' snow."

That's … not right.

Bruce frowns, "How did you—how are you _alive?"_

At this, Logan smirks, tipping his drink again in another salute.

"Like I said—I'm a tough man to kill."

* * *

They spend their remaining days enjoying the freedom of having the Tower completely to themselves—not that they spend much time outside of the bedroom—and she awakes Monday morning with the distinct impression of a child on the eve of a new school year. For the most part, she's stopped thinking about all the reasons why she'd sought to avoid allowing anything more to grow between herself and the Trickster; Loki proves particularly devoted to the task of keeping her sufficiently distracted from such thoughts. With every passing hour—with each passing day—she expects the fire in her belly to be extinguished or the craving in her mouth to be quenched. It's what she is used to—yet, when desire only seems to grow, holding onto these thoughts becomes both troublesome and tiresome and she commits herself to enjoying the moment while it lasts.

It's late into the morning and Natasha should have probably called in to alert the office, as well as Reed, that she would not be making it in today, as it is looking to be another day spent lounging about the Tower, enjoying the privacy while it lasts. Instead, she finds herself enjoying an unnecessarily long shower with Loki and all other thoughts and responsibilities dismissed.

After the last couple of days, there is very little that they haven't seen of each other's body, yet it is Loki's eyes that always seem to demand her attention. She's not thinking about anything but the memory of his touch and his lips as they face each other, idly brushing their teeth while the shower head pelts the back of Loki's head with warm water. She grins to let him know that her thoughts are of him and he mirrors the expression with a smirk that makes his eyes seem to brighten.

She knows how domestic the scene must appear, but there is something so fascinating about watching Loki perform such a _human_ task that she has to wonder if it's even necessary in the first place, or if Loki is merely acting out of habit acquired from his time on Earth. It would not be the first thing she's noticed—from his penchant for 'Midgardian fashions' to his tendency to slip into less formal patterns of speech when he was speaking with her or Pepper or Happy—about the only people he seemed to be on good terms with, though Bruce seemed to be warming up.

The thought of Bruce brings all others thoughts of Loki to a halt and she frowns, popping out her toothbrush so she can spit at the drain between their feet.

Swiping at her mouth, she looks up at Loki to ask, "Hey, did Bruce say anything to you?"

Loki frowns, stilling for a moment as he tries to understand where the sudden question could have come from. Then, with a ridiculously graceful spit, fingers carefully wiping away at the excess foam from his mouth, he shrugs and says, "Nothing specific."

Natasha eyes narrow immediately. "But he _talked_ to you."

Loki nods, plucking her toothbrush from her hand and depositing both into the holder mounted to the wall of the shower. "Only because he'd thought you'd worry."

"I _am_ worried," Natasha agrees, feeling a flicker of annoyance towards both Bruce and Loki.

Loki's eyes meet hers. "I would not have allowed him to go if I thought he was in danger of losing control."

He says this so simply—as if there had never been an ounce of the animosity she knew had once burned between the two men, making it so that neither one could inhabit the Tower while the other was present. It's a strange statement for Loki to make, now, and she's not sure how to take it. It could be a warning or it could be an assurance. It could be _both_.

Hesitantly, she mutters, "So … you think he's … good?"

Loki steps forward, brow pinched together as he reaches out to cup her face between his hands, murmuring with the subtlest of nods, "For now."

She nods—thinks she can try not to butt into Bruce's affairs, even when it's driving her insane that it's because of _her_ and her inability to work quickly enough that Bruce is still shackled to what he sees only as a curse.

"He will be fine. He will be alone in meditation. What could go wrong?"

Frowning, Natasha studies Loki's expression for any sign of deceit—tries to determine whether it would benefit Loki more if Bruce were to lose control at last or if Loki had no interest in either the man or the Hulk now that his interests no longer fell to conquering the Earth. The feeling of worry is not so easily brushed aside and she wishes there was a way to immediately ascertain that Bruce was _safe_ and—

"Would you like me to check?" Loki asks suddenly.

Natasha scowls. "Are you reading my thoughts?"

"No," Loki smiles, leaning forward to align their brows. "But it's simple enough to read them upon your face."

Natasha grunts and doesn't point out that she didn't actually think he'd be enough of an asshole to read her thoughts without her consent. As she considers his offer, her face crumples with conflicting desires. "I really shouldn't …"

"A peek," Loki says, eyes dropping to her lips and thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as his hands slide to settle at her neck. "Only a glance. I will not invade his privacy."

"We're _already_ invading his privacy," Natasha argues, scowling.

Loki's smile widens as his eyes dart back to hers. "So, yes?" When Natasha only continues to scowl, he hums, shutting his eyes. It's barely a moment before he says, "I see … forest. Snow. Banner—meditating. A … cabin?"

"Cabin?"

"Yes. It seems abandoned. He's alone. I do not sense anyone for many kilometers."

Natasha exhales, bringing a hand to rest over one of his, squashing the immediate flush of guilt. "Okay. Stop. That's enough."

"Now," Loki says, shaking her lightly. "Set mind to ease so we might enjoy privacy while it is ours to have."

Natasha sniffs, smiling reluctantly. She tips her face upward as Loki leans forward—but that is, of course, when a sharp knocking at the bathroom door startles them both.

"Natasha?"

It's Pepper.

Natasha reaches out past Loki to hastily shut off the water. Making a silencing gesture at Loki, she calls out, "Hey—yeah! Pep! What's up?"

She immediately cringes at her choice in words, not wanting to encourage an overlong conversation. She steps out of the showers, snatching a towel from the rack; behind her, Loki is watching her with an incredulous look and she scowls, grabbing another towel and throwing it at his face.

"Sorry-sorry! Just letting you know we're home. Where's Bruce?"

"Uh—ah …" She's distracted from answering by the realization that she doesn't actually have anything to change into. Wrapping the towel securely under her arms, she looks up helplessly to see Loki smirking, towel about his waist. She bites back a growl of frustration, miming a choking gesture at him as she paces towards the bathroom door. "No. I don't know. Um—he didn't really mention where he was headed."

"Weird … " Pepper murmurs and it sounds like she's standing close.

Silently, Loki moves to lean against the wall next to the door, arms crossed and smiling quietly at the tile. Natasha spares him a glare as she reaches for the door handle—

"Oh, hey, Loki?" Pepper calls out suddenly and Natasha's hand freezes over the handle as her stomach turns to lead. "Happy's been trying to get a hold of you all week. Is your phone working?"

Natasha gapes at the door, stunned; her eyes dart to his and his smile widens after a moment before he angles his head towards the door and replies, "My phone is working fine, but I might have neglected to charge it."

Eyes narrowing sharply as shock is replaced with suspicion, Natasha jerks open the door by a fraction to find Pepper standing on the other side, smirking triumphantly at her through the gap. Natasha glares and Pepper chuckles as she says, "Hello, Natasha. I'm glad to see you're feeling much better."

"Hi, _Pepper_," Natasha snaps back.

Pepper laughs, shaking her head. Then, in a mocking semblance of reprisal, adds, "By the way—Peter's here. He looks traumatized. What did you do?"

Natasha sniffs, drawing back from the door to glance at Loki. "He learned his lesson in calling first before showing up unannounced."

Loki is grinning and Pepper groans, "Dear Lord …"

Natasha looks back to Pepper and smirks. "Don't worry. He's a big boy. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Pepper looks horrified. "He was _pure._"

Natasha shrugs.

"Was."

* * *

The silence weighs heavily on Steve long after Fury has finished speaking and his thoughts turn to all the many months he and S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark and so many others have spent working to clean the streets of the madmen claiming to be something more. He knows that it is the way of war—for every five miles of ground gained, another is lost—but that does not stop the burden of dejection and knowledge that as a soldier, one's duty is never complete.

"The situation has been contained," Fury says after he has allowed his words to settle. "For the most part."

Steve frowns. "For the most part?"

Coulson stands, tapping commands into his laptop that immediately pull up two very notable profiles before Steve on the table. Coulson explains, "The Melter and the Black Knight—they're in the wind. Our tracers are useless. It's like they've completely vanished."

Steve nods in understanding, turning his gaze to Fury. "What would you have me do, sir?"

"I need you to speak with Stark. See if she or her buddy Richards can figure something out."

Steve frowns, looking to Coulson as if to confirm the order. He understands Fury's desire to see him and Stark working together, as it is a desire he shares as well, but it had been quite some time since he'd been tasked to deliver personal messages to the woman. Beyond that, Steve felt there was an implication in the way Fury worded his order that made it seem as if, without Stark on-board, Richards would not be inclined to obey command.

"Isn't Mr. Fantastic under contract with you?" Steve asks, shifting his gaze back to Fury.

It is Coulson who answers. "Yes, but he only agreed to work with us because he was told he'd be working with _Stark_."

"Didn't you enlist him _before_ even speaking with Stark … ?" Steve asks, looking between the two men, careful to keep his tone respectful. "How did you even know she'd agree to work with us again?"

Fury's expression is as stone when he replies, "Because she will always do what is best for this country, regardless the personal cost."

* * *

Lunch is a semi-awkward affair.

The seating arrangements are the same as usual, but that only seems to make it worse for poor Peter who can't seem to contain the blush from staining his cheeks every time he happens to look up and catch her eyes. Loki ignores the boy with ease and Happy seems perfectly oblivious as he huddles close to the God, eagerly recanting all that he and Pepper had seen during their trip. Natasha distracts herself with her phone, but she can feel Pepper's gaze burning holes into her brow.

Eventually, Peter clears his throat and asks, "Hey, by the way—when's your birthday?"

Eyes flicking up to cast him a deadpan look, she grunts, "I don't know. Look it up on Wikipedia."

Peter seems startled. "You don't know your own birthday?"

"I know my own birthday," Natasha bites back irritably. "Why do _you_ need to know my birthday?"

"Uh—because—then I know when to get you something," Peter replies as if that should be obvious.

"Don't get me anything," Natasha says, turning back to her phone. Celebrations were mandatory—she was _Natasha Stark_—but it had been a long time since she'd enjoyed a birthday without being reminded of the man who'd introduced her to the novel idea of it in the first place and she was in too good of a mood to be thinking about _Obi._

"Aww—but—"

"The twenty-ninth of May."

Stunned, Natasha glances to her left to gape at Loki, who's looking at Peter with an expression of absolute disinterest.

"How do _you_ know that?" Natasha demands.

Loki snorts, rolling his eyes to look at her. "I _was_ your assistant for nearly half a year, if you recall?"

"When's _your_ birthday, Lucas?" Pepper asks, tone sweet as ever.

Loki falls strangely silent for a beat, hesitating when he meets Pepper's gaze. He says, "I do not celebrate it," but to Natasha it sounds like, "I do not know."

There is no indication in his tone or expression that he feels any discomfort, yet Happy reacts as if he could sense it, quickly calling to Peter, "Would you like a ride home? Pep and I will be heading in that direction."

"Oh," Peter blinks, surprised, "That'd be _awesome_. Yeah. Thanks."

Pepper smiles. "Good. Because we—"

The door opens and Natasha scowls immediately when Bethany Cabe enters—the expression dropping immediately to confusion when she sees Rogers trailing behind her. Rising from her seat, Natasha levels Rogers with a frown, asking through silent gaze whether his presence should be regarded as an emergency. Rogers' subtle head-shake is her response and she releases a heavy breath through her nose, nodding in gratitude and rolling her eyes in Cabe's direction.

"Sorry about that," Natasha says in reference to Cabe. "I haven't figured out how to get rid of this one, yet. She's stubborn."

Without sparing Natasha's words a thought, Cabe exchanges a curt nod with Pepper, then Rogers, before slipping out of the room just as silently.

"It's not a problem," Rogers says, the faintest of twitches at the corner of his mouth belaying his discomfort as his eyes take in the faces surrounding the dining table.

"Please tell me you haven't been giving Ms. Cabe a hard time while I've been gone," Pepper sighs as she stands from her seat, Happy following suit while Peter quietly sets to gathering the plates from the table.

"No more than can be expected," Natasha shrugs, ignoring Pepper's look of disapproval as she moves around the table to make her way to Rogers. She lowers her voice when she's standing in front of him, frown deepening. "Fury send you?"

Rogers ducks his head in a nod, murmuring, "Yes. Sorry, I would have called—"

"It's fine," Natasha says dismissively, glancing over her shoulder to see that everyone was pretty much done with lunch and preparing to set about their days. Pepper and Loki were caught in quiet discussion while Peter and Happy finished clearing the table. Turning back to Rogers, she shrugs, motioning him towards the door. "I just usually expect Coulson. Come on. We can talk in my office."

* * *

There is an unusual calm between them as they enter the silence of her office, and when the door shuts behind her, it's as if they are transported to a different world. She pauses at the door, gesturing for Rogers to take a seat while she takes a moment to absorb this odd feeling. She expects resentment to resurface but feels as if it has all been washed away since last they spoke, the warmth in her chest she thinks might have something to do with Loki like a barrier that will not be breached by negative emotion.

Rogers moves to sit at the chair in front of her desk rather than at one of the two sofas facing each other so Natasha moves to her desk chair, rotating her monitor out of the way so that she can properly meet the man's gaze.

"So, what's the problem now?"

Rogers gets straight to the point. "Security at Ryker's Island has been compromised."

"'Security'?" Natasha's brows rise in surprise and she sits forward, alert.

"The computer systems that control—"

"They were _hacked?"_ Natasha swipes a hand down her face where it lingers at her mouth as she tries to flip through a mental list of every person she knows who might have the skills to compromise the security of a system designed by S.H.I.E.L.D.

"That is the term Fury used, yes."

Natasha exhales, her gaze settled on a corner of her desk as her mind whirs, attention half on the conversation—but that is more than enough. "How bad?"

"Prisoners from Blocks C, D and E—"

"Maximum security."

"They awoke in the morning, evidently, to discover their cells _unlocked_."

"Shit."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. managed to respond quickly, but many of the guards were severely injured—"

"Deaths?" Natasha asks sharply, looking to Rogers.

"None that have been reported," Rogers assures her steadily. At Natasha's nod, he continues. "S.H.I.E.L.D. managed to contain the majority of them—"

"Where were _you_?" Natasha asks when it occurs to her that Rogers is continually referring to the organization as if he were not a part of it. There is no accusation in her tone, only curiosity and concern.

Rogers frowns, clearly displeased. "I was on assignment. I was not able to return in time to prevent—" He clenches his teeth over his next words and Natasha feels dread pool in her belly.

"… What?"

Rogers sighs, but he seems determined to hold her gaze. "The Black Knight and … The Melter. They've escaped."

_... Escaped?_

Bruno Horgan had _escaped?_

… For one split second, the world rushes at her like she's falling.

When her vision returns, it feels as if her heart and stomach have exchanged places and she swallows, carefully clearing her expression and tone of emotion. "Together, or … ?"

"We don't know. There were others, but—those two …"

"I know," Natasha murmurs, setting her elbows to the desk and forming a steeple with her hands. She leans forward to press her mouth over her knuckles, her gaze distant as she stares down at her desk.

As far as the criminals in Ryker's were concerned, The Black Knight and The Melter were two of the most notorious for the ruckus they'd made in the media. Of course, there have been others, but there was something about a man on a winged horse and another responsible for the deaths of countless civilians that really stuck with the public.

"Fury seems to think you can track them," Rogers says.

Natasha snorts, straightening in her seat and reaching out to turn her computer monitor to face her. She rolls her chair back so she can pull out the table with her keyboard and mouse. As the monitor comes to life, she explains, "We've been working on methods of tracking these criminals without violating the Constitutional rights some of these assholes don't even _deserve_."

"You and Richards?"

"Yes," Natasha says distractedly, logging into her network and pulling up the program she and Reed had been experimenting with.

"What about Loki?"

Natasha's hands falter over her keyboard and she cuts Rogers a suspicious look. "What _about_ him?"

Rogers shrugs, uncertainty in his tone. "Couldn't _he_ track them—locate them—_something? _He has … _magic_, doesn't he?"

Sitting back, Natasha frowns. "I—well, Loki's never actually _met_ either of them." Not that she really understood the full extent of _what _Loki's magic was capable of. "I don't _know._ I can _ask_, but—don't expect any miracles."

Her gaze flicks back to Rogers to see him frowning at her desk in thought and she studies his expression—tries to determine whether the proposal was Rogers' own or one of Fury's designs. She doesn't like imagining Fury entertaining any ideas about staking some sort of claim on Loki just because she happened to be cooperating with S.H.I.E.L.D. at the moment. She dreads the repercussions should Fury think to intervene between the alliance she and Loki had built between each other over the past year. Loki would not handle well Fury falling into any delusions and presuming to make demands of the Trickster. God _forbid_ Fury try to manipulate Loki into serving S.H.I.E.L.D.'s purposes.

Scowling at these thoughts, Natasha sits forward so she can set her mind back to her program. Reed is, of course, online and responds immediately when she forwards him a chunk of code. It takes him less than a second to analyze it and understand the situation and within the next second she is receiving a confirmation request—the tracking software they'd coded requiring both of them to be initiated.

Before she can confirm, Reed sends her another message, reading: **System approved?**

Natasha types a quick response: **Director's orders. **

**Good enough.**

She confirms the authorization request, then shoots out a command to three of her S.I. Satellites, redirecting their route coordinates. As she waits for Reed to complete the next phase, her mind sets to conceiving a more convenient and efficient means of execution.

After a moment, Rogers says, "He seems to … _care_? For _you_, I mean."

Unable to tear her gaze from her monitor, Natasha tilts her face in his direction and mutters, "Who are we talking about?"

"Loki."

Startled to be back on the topic of the Trickster, Natasha scowls, cursing inwardly as she looks to Rogers and sees him staring back at her, brows pinched in curiosity. Shaking her head dismissively and clearing her expression, her eyes flick between Rogers and her monitor, foot tapping an impatient rhythm under the desk.

"He—no," she huffs, exasperated. "That's—it's not like … _that_. We just … have an understanding. We're partners. I scratch his back, he scratches mine." As she says this, a second confirmation notice appears on her screen, along with a block of code and a window of script.

Rogers chuckles quietly, distracting her as she's copying over Reed's code to the command script.

"What?" Natasha grunts, gaze darting back to him as she completes the task.

Rogers is smiling, shaking his head, "I just find it funny that it is easier for you to trust _him_ than it is for you to trust _me._"

Natasha frowns, turning to him when she sees her monitor dim and JARVIS takes over in analyzing the script. She mutters, "That's not—I don't _trust_ him."

"He's your partner," Rogers says pointedly, brows raised.

Natasha sighs, scrubbing at her brow in frustration. "I work with him, sometimes, _yeah_. I work with _Fury_ sometimes, too. Doesn't mean I trust _Fury_, either." Dropping her hand, she shoots him a glare. "And I _trust_ you, Rogers. I don't like you all the time, but I trust you."

Rogers snorts, rolling his eyes, "Gee—_thanks."_

"_You_ brought it up," Natasha retorts with a smirk, sitting back and folding her hands over her lap. More seriously, she adds, "Look, Loki and I—we just work well together. He and I are very … _similar_, in ways."

Rogers arches a brow, more amused than stern when he asks, "Should I be concerned?"

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Nah. I'm just saying—I've got a good idea for how he _works._ We're not like _you._ We're not _heroes._"

"You always _say_ that," Rogers says, smiling secretively. Natasha frowns, immediately defensive. "But it sounds to me like you're trying to convince _yourself_ more than anything."

Narrowing her eyes, Natasha can't tell if he's pulling her leg or if this is a serious conversation that they're having right now. Grimacing, she mutters, "Are we—are we having, like, a heart-to-heart right now? Is that what's happening?"

He chuckles, "God forbid we talk about _feelings._ We might end up _liking_ each other."

Dubiously, Natasha adds, "Or _hating_ each other."

This seems to sober Rogers. His smile dissolves into a frown and Natasha watches the transformation in fascination. Carefully, almost incredulously, Rogers says, "You think that, don't you? You think if I got to know you, I'd end up hating you."

Feigning nonchalance, Natasha shrugs, averting her eyes and remembering to check her monitor only as an afterthought. "Guess we'll find out."

JARVIS's analysis completely, Natasha reaches out to tap the ENTER key and waits, eyes fixed on the screen.

"I haven't talked to Fury about this," Rogers says after a moment, drawing her attention. "But I think it's time for us to start looking into building up our numbers."

The abrupt shift in topics surprises her, but she's grateful nonetheless.

"You're referring to the Avengers, I'm assuming," Natasha says. "But it's not like we have a lot of options. Most of them are completely inexperienced. They would sooner get themselves killed and I'm not having that on my conscience."

Rogers nods in what she thinks is agreement before he adds, "What about Spiderman?"

"No," she Natasha says sharply, looking to him. "Not Spiderman."

"He's _good_. He—"

"Is a _kid_," Natasha snaps. "No."

Rogers sighs. "You know he'll involve himself regardless. At least he could be _trained_." When Natasha shifts forward, preparing to argue, he adds, "He's _already_ involving himself just by taking a mask—making him an Avenger would only show that he can be trusted. That he's one of _us._"

Natasha glares.

Goddamn Rogers and his damn _sense._

She knows he has a point, but she racks her mind for anything she can use to counter it.

The truth is, Natasha knows she's been slowly allowing Iron Woman to serve as a sort of mentor for Spiderman on the field. It had been the natural thing to do—making sure the kid didn't get himself killed had been the _natural_ thing to do. Still, it was one thing for Spiderman to be taking on street thugs and the occasional masked criminal—but being an Avenger would put him in a completely different _league._ He would be facing criminals like the _Melter_ who didn't _care_ who they hurt as long as _someone_ was hurt—he would be facing _monsters_ like the Chitauri or whatever the hell else was lurking out there.

Leaning forward, she rests her elbows on her desk and buries her face in her hands—just in time to feel her face crumble and her eyes burn. Tears gather and catch in her lashes—her heart clenching and stomach churning with fear because—

She _cares_ about the kid. She _worries_ about him.

She doesn't want him to ever have to face the reality of the monsters lurking in the sky—wants to keep him under her wing, where she can keep an eye on him, where he can be _protected._

But she can't.

Because Rogers is right. If it comes down to it, Spiderman will jump into whatever danger—step in front of any villain—because that kid is a goddamn little _shit_ who never _listens. _Avenger or no—that's just a title. Spiderman is a stubborn little asshole who's young and still seems to believe that having superpowers means he's _invincible_—but Natasha knows that's never the case. Because even _Bruce_ has his weaknesses and Bruce has the _Hulk._

Inhaling silently through her mouth, Natasha ducks her head so her palms are digging into her eyes and her mouth is free for speaking.

"Rogers—if we're going to do this—if we're going to be working together as a _team_—if _Spiderman_—" She takes a breath, clenching her teeth as she struggles to keep her words steady. Quietly, she lifts her head to face him, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. She swallows and says, looking directly into his eyes, "It needs to be _me_ and _you_ and _anyone_ who takes on the responsibilities of an Avenger. We need to—we can't become a government weapon. We serve the _people_, not Fury."

Rogers frowns, concern in his eyes. "Director Fury is a good man. He has the country's best intentions in mind."

Taking a breath, Natasha lowers her hands and crosses her arms on the desk. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is an international organization. It just so happens that Fury is _based_ here, but that's mostly to do with _us._ I would have thought you understood this by now."

"I … _do_ understand that Fury—" Shaking his head, Rogers sighs wearily, nodding. "Yes. I understand."

"Whatever kind of man Fury might be, he is ultimately just another soldier following orders."

Again, Rogers nods.

Natasha studies him quietly, tries to set aside every negative bias she has built into her idea of the man because—she'd meant what she'd said before: she trusts Rogers. With her _life._

But being on a team, working cohesively towards something _so important_—Natasha had come to understand that it's _more_ than just trusting another with your life. It's about _trusting_. She needs to learn to trust Rogers, and Rogers trust _her_—because it was one thing when it was _her_ life, but if it's _Spiderman _or _Bruce?_

Rogers stands as if to go and it draws Natasha out of her thoughts. Standing quickly, Natasha says, "There's one more thing that I need to talk to you about." Rogers stills and waits for her to continue. Pursing her lips, Natasha scowls at her own conflicting thoughts because she _needs_ to make a decision. "I can trust you, right?"

Rogers doesn't look offended; merely nods and says, "Of course you can."

Hands curling to fists, Natasha finds her resolve and her expression becomes one of steel. "This stays between you and I. You have to _swear_ this to me."

"I swear."

Natasha nods.

"Good. Then—"

* * *

"I find it curious."

Loki schools his expression when the interior of his bedroom falls away as if made up of panels, revealing the vastness of the space between realms. There is infinity all about him and it is only here, among the stars, that Loki feels as if he could be something small—something insignificant. A colorful nebula swirls and rotates almost imperceptibly beneath his feet and he feels the faintest tug of the gas giant at his back, illuminating his silhouette in an orange-red glow. Before him, the Norn Queen slowly materializes in all her grandeur, scarlet gown flowing out for what seems like miles at her back, almost glowing a fiery hue in reflection of the star's brilliance.

"You," Karnilla elaborates when Loki fails to respond. She cants her head to one side as if observing a strange little thing, but not something of worth.

"If you have words, break them and be done. We have business to attend," Loki mutters.

"Such _impatience,"_ Karnilla smiles, sharp and wicked. "I refer to your fascination with the mortal, of course. This … _Stark._ The Lady of Iron. You've … _taken_ with her. It seems unlike you."

Loki sneers. "Do you not have more pressing matter to set mind to? I fail to see how my personal affairs are of any concern to—"

"Personal?" Karnilla's smile widens, revealing a flash of teeth. Loki maintains his sneer because feigning disinterest or revealing the extent of his irritation now would only feed Karnilla's amusement. Chuckling quietly, Karnilla waves a hand in a half-circular motion and Loki feels something warm in his clenched fist, materializing slowly. "Very well, Trickster. I will allow you your _privacy._ There. Your rings, as requested."

He brings his hand to his face to study the rings—a rosy gold that seems more orange in the starlight. There are two, one distinctly larger than the other while the other is delicate in design and shape.

Curling his fingers around the rings, Loki nods. "You have my gratitude."

"I'll require more than _gratitude_ to serve as payment."

"I am aware."

Karnilla's eyes narrow but there is satisfaction in her expression. The Goddess has never known disappointment—gains all that she desires through strength of her sorcery—but Loki knows that she has never trusted him.

Her smile widens suddenly, and she asks, "What of the _amulet_? So painstakingly crafted by the Dvergr—craftsmanship worthy of royalty—yet given to _mortal._"

Loki scowls. He knows Karnilla is only trying to get a rise out of him, though he does not understand where this new interest in Natasha has come from. "She is never without it."

Karnilla laughs. "_My_! She must certainly trust _you_ to accept such a … _gift."_

"She knows not its true purpose," Loki mutters, testing the weight of the rings in his hand to remind himself that Karnilla still had her uses and was not so easily bested as Amora.

"Know this, Loki—" Karnilla says, tone abruptly heavy with warning. "If your tongue should prove false in promises made to me—"

Loki smiles dismissively, "I would not break trust with you."

Karnilla glares. "So you _say_."

Knowing it's pointless to argue, Loki sighs, raising his fisted hand, still warmed by the rings he clutched. "The rings."

"The enchantments will hold, Princeling," Karnilla replies, as if offended that he should imply otherwise—and then Loki only blinks, but suddenly Karnilla is before him, extending a hand to trace long, painted, nails across his cheek. Smiling sweetly, she leans forward to whisper, "Will you not tell me what nefarious purpose they serve?"

Loki only smiles evasively, keeping still. "It is not for you to know."

Karnilla laughs, sneering, "Do _you_? Or is this the hand of _another?" _Karnilla's form vanishes in a crimson cloud of mist. She materializes directly behind him and Loki is careful not to react at the hand that curls about his throat and the lips that move to hover just a breath from his ear. _"_You know of whom I speak."

Twisting to face her, Loki smirks, "I am not so easily fooled. You know me, Karnilla."

"Since you were but a babe," she murmurs into the corner of his mouth, grinning.

"Yet I am no longer a child."

With a sigh, Karnilla vanishes again, only to appear several paces ahead of him, her expression shadowed and figure silhouetted by the brilliant star now at her back. Quietly, Karnilla says, "You have much to learn, Princeling. You believe your cause _just_, and so you place trust upon one you know so little _of_."

Loki sneers, "I place trust in none but myself, yet I have cause to believe him in this."

"You did not always feel this way. Was it not mistrust that led you to seek my aid?" Karnilla asks almost wistfully. Loki squints to make out the details of her expression, but Karnilla only seems to slip further away—without actually moving at all—though her voice remains as clear as if it were in his own mind. "Perhaps you overreach. You may not favor result. Even _Tricksters_ can be fooled."

The heaviness of each words seems to carry _heavier_ meaning and Loki wonders if she knows more than she's letting on.

"Your choices will ripple through all of time, altering fates and destinies," Karnilla says ominously. "It is a dangerous thing to challenge the Fates—even for an _Aesir."_

Loki snarls, rapidly losing his patience with this strange mood. "I am _no_ Aesir."

"It is not blood that makes the man," Karnilla replies simply.

Loki clears his expression and says nothing. Karnilla has always been a woman shrouded in mystery—Asgardian by blood yet one of the few to sever ties from the Kingdom, ruling over the province of Nornheim independently from the All-Father's rule. Before the betrayal of his supposed _family_, Loki had never had occasion to meet with the Sorceress—yet, upon seeking her out, there alliance had been an easy one. One had only to _understand_ the Norn Queen.

"Power is nothing without one to share it with," Karnilla says and Loki snorts. "You scoff, boy, but you have not lived nearly as long as I, so you do not truly understand your own immortality."

"I understand it well enough," Loki replies, smirking wryly.

"It is a curious thing, immortality—for, like wealth and possession, its meaning is fleeting. Transitory." Once more, Karnilla disappears, reappearing directly before him, expression cold. Loki's amusement withers immediately as Karnilla speaks. "_We_ do not feel loss, for all things lost return in time and those who live forever have time in abundance."

Karnilla reaches out with a hand and Loki is startled by the gentleness of her touch as she settles her palm at the center of his chest, above his heart.

"Strength and power are not merely things of flesh," she murmurs.

Loki frowns—but he doesn't know what response he might have given, because almost immediately, he hears a different voice call out behind him.

"Loki?"

In an instant, the room begins to reform back to its original state, Karnilla's form almost collapsing into itself in a cloud of scarlet smoke. Loki twists to face where his bedroom door has appeared, a solitary white rectangle in a sea of space. His Asgardian garb dissolves from his form, replaced by his Midgardian attire, and Loki hurriedly slips the enchanted rings into the pockets of his pants.

The moment Natasha takes a step into the room, everything is as it had been and the only trace of Karnilla's presence is in the echo of her words within Loki's mind.

"Were you talking to someone?" Natasha asks, regarding the room in bemusement.

"My colleague," Loki answers dismissively—because there was really no point in lying, nor in being completely honest.

"Huh." She crosses her arms, brows drawn to a pinch as she examines to room with curiosity.

Loki knows that she will not find anything to feed her interest and so he does not make attempt to distract her, instead taking a moment to observe. She's wearing her hair down and he distantly admires the length—remembers the shortly cropped style she'd worn and can't help but regret never having found occasion to test the feel of the short tufts, haphazardly arranged, so that he might compare the two lengths. She's wearing a dark overcoat and it seems heavy, almost too formal for a regular outing, belted at her waist, concealing underlying clothing; calf-length boots replace her normally casual footwear.

"Well, I'm heading out," Natasha says after a moment, abandoning her silent inspection of his bedroom to turn her gaze to him. "I didn't see Pepper, so let her know I'll be downtown with Reed if she asks."

"You could text her and tell her yourself," he replies, not interested in playing messenger. Natasha is not dressed for the labs and while it amuses him that there are still so many things he has yet to discover about her, he'd rather not get caught between her and Pepper if it turns out she's planning something ridiculous.

She smirks, arching a brow. "Well maybe I wanted to tell _you._"

Understanding, Loki huffs a laugh, grinning faintly in response to the playfulness in her eyes. Crossing the bedroom to stand before her, he reaches out almost instinctively, hands curling at the nape of her neck so that smooth hair and the radiating warmth from her scalp are felt keenly against his palms. At his hold, her dark hair gathers to cradle her cheeks, her eyes wide and bright and framed in long, dark lashes, smirk growing to a grin—

The suddenness of realization strikes him so abruptly he is stunned.

Because she is _beautiful—_though it seems to him that it is something he has _always_ known—yet it is a beauty he cannot believe any God could conceive.

It is in her eyes—in the brilliance and sharpness and resourcefulness of her mind which seems to glimmer within her gaze. It is in the crooked twist of her grin and the way one cheek is quirked higher than the other, revealing dimpled cheek. It is _everything_ he has already known and observed—and yet, in a _smile_, all of these things seem to come together and for once, speech is but a memory because he cannot find words nor even form a solitary _thought._

"You okay?" Natasha asks, smile turning inquisitive as her brows draw together.

Instead of answering, Loki leans forward—feels a flicker of triumph when her lips immediately part and eyes shut in expectation. The shape of her lips, now familiar—taste _memorized_—but he feels he would be content never to part from the sweet suction of her mouth—the softness, the _heat_. He is left breathless and it reminds him of the fluttering of fear in his belly as he fell into the chasms of the space between realms, limitless and ancient all about him.

When he pulls back, his brow remains pressed urgently to hers as if to ground himself. His mouth hangs open to taste her breath with every exhale and he shifts one hand to fully curl about her nape as he brings the other to press against her cheek, soaking in the heat beneath supple flesh, thumb pressing into the jut of cheekbone.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Natasha whispers, gasping, and Loki opens his eyes to see her expression contorted into something between concern and desire.

Loki only nods and his eyes drop to her mouth as her tongue darts out across her lips.

Inhaling deeply, Natasha nods and seems to gather strength before stepping back. "I really do have to go."

Once again, Loki's eyes flick over her clothing and he murmurs, "Right. You are meeting with Richards."

"Yeah," she says, licking at her lips again as if savoring a taste. She hesitates before turning to go, her smile shaky when she looks up at him. "Ah—alright—well—I'll see you tomorrow, if not tonight."

Loki smirks, but he feels leeched of the strength to maintain it. "Try to make it tonight."

Natasha huffs a laugh, and only nods—hesitating again before slipping out of the room with backwards wave.

* * *

**End Notes:**

Please excuse all mistakes! I've only done one pass so far but I lack the patience to wait any longer before posting!

More feelings. Yay! The over-abundance of cuddling in that first scene wasn't just for gratuitous mush. It was to imprint within Natasha the idea that there is more within Loki than just a desire for revenge and limitless ambition, because Loki _is_ vulnerable. Maybe Howard and Maria never showed much affection towards Natasha, but that's not how _Loki_ was raised. With Frigga and Thor, both incredibly affectionate people, Loki was never long without a hand at his neck or his shoulder or an exuberant embrace. Even Odin offered young Loki more affection than Howard ever offered his kid (and I'm talking about both Natasha and Tony). In this, at least, Loki is not immune to the craving of another's touch because one can only mourn something that has been lost and Natasha never knew the powerful affection of a parent—only the selfish and manipulative gestures of Obadiah.

Well, as you can see, just because they've finally accepted they're attracted to each other doesn't mean they're really willing to acknowledge it's anything more than that. Although both of them experienced several 'uh-oh' moments, Loki in particular. But since this story is so much more than just Natasha and Loki bumming around in bed, I made sure to throw in some much needed scenes with Steve and Bruce.

Also, on to some less awesome news: We just started a new project at work, and while my promotion was an awesome achievement, it means that I have a _ton_ of work to do that will more than likely bleed into my personal time. It's a small project, but that still means many months of busting my butt on this monster. What that _doesn't_ mean is that CV will be going into a hiatus, or that I will ever abandon this story. What it _means_ is that, at most, you might have to wait a few extra weeks for chapter releases, as you've seen with the last couple of chapters. I know this came at a very inopportune moment, but I will continue to dedicate as much time as I can to the completion of this fic. This fic has been such a great means of developing my writing and I am determined to see it to its end.


	16. Peculiar State

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **They're 'Evil'.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen:

_Peculiar State_

He has never been a science man. Even with the serum coursing in his veins, amplifying intelligence and memory recall, Steve feels like an idiot as he stands apart from Richards and Pym while they discuss … _science._ It's more of a nuisance than anything else that he is able to file away their words—but it's like taking a recording of someone speaking a foreign language, whatever information their words might contain concealed by the barrier of his ignorance. He's relieved when Stark arrives a little after noon, because at least, despite her tendency to speak in riddles—forgetting that those around her do not think at the same level as she—Stark is a familiar face.

It's occurred to Steve that the reason Stark has always been able to get under his skin—aside from her natural affinity for infuriating others—is because part of him sees in her the shade of an era past; an echo of a home he can never return to. It's ironic, because Stark represents everything about the future—and yet she is one of the last remaining ties Steve has to the past. Sometimes, he can almost see Howard in her—in the rapid-fire speech and the eyes that observed _everything_. But only _sometimes_.

"Hey, stranger," Richards says as his neck arcs around the width of the Gate and spots Stark approaching. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Stark laughs, pocketing her phone. "Yeah. I know. Even Starks get sick." Her gaze darts to Steve, then to Pym, where he's sitting on the floor facing the Gate to the Negative Zone, and she says, "Fury debrief you?"

Pym, without looking up from the laptop he has perched on his thighs, shrugs and says, "Between him and Richards, I should be all caught up."

"Did you know we would be here?" Steve asks, curious by her lack of surprise.

"It was only a matter of time before Fury reassigned Pym to our division. After what happened at Ryker's, it's all hands on deck." She considers him with a smirk as she makes her way to him, single brow arched. "I don't know why _you're_ here, though."

"With The Melter on the loose, it's better safe than sorry," Steve explains.

Stark rolls her eyes, sweeping past him and further into the lab. "I'm Iron Woman, and I've got the Fantastic Four as my backup. Why the hell would Fury send me _Captain America_ as a bodyguard?"

Steve moves to follow her without a thought, stating, "I volunteered."

Rather than reacting, Stark only responds by shaking her head, walking around a large mechanical structure protruding from the ground to an open space where Steve sees the Iron Woman standing vigil upon a platform. The suit is wired to a great computer mounted on the ceiling above, unmistakably an Iron Woman, despite the gray colored armor and gold detail.

"Looks different," Steve observes.

Moving to stand at the station in front of the suit, Stark's hands dart quickly over what seem like several different monitors and keyboards—though Steve has a hard time differentiating one from the other. "The Space Armor, Mark II," she explains.

"I didn't realize you had more than one," Steve says, clasping his hands behind his back as he studies the armor with interest. He's tempted to move in for a closer look, but he doesn't want to find himself in the way. The Iron Woman suit has always fascinated the artist in him, but he's never had the opportunity to truly admire it. "I knew that you upgraded, on occasion, but I didn't realize you were making … _variants. _Are they necessary?"

She snorts. "It's not 'one suit fits all'. I need to be prepared for _anything_."

Steve frowns as his eyes shift to settle on her back. "Fury said you were busy with personal projects. That's why he didn't immediately approach you about reinstating the Avengers Initiative and the prison facilities for superhuman criminals."

"He didn't approach me about the prison specs because he knew I'd been working on them since the Chitauri incident."

Interested, Steve asks, "Is that what you've been doing, then? Since the incident? Working on suits and prisons?"

"Among other things." Stark shrugs. "I like to keep myself busy."

"You don't think it's a bit obsessive?"

"It's what I do. It's my job. I might not be able to do much without the suit in terms of strength, but I _can_ offer _this._ Security. Containment."

Steve falls silent as he considers this—listens to the quiet shuffling behind him of Pym and Richards and watches the feather-light touches Stark applies to each monitor as her hands whiz about, as if running multiple tasks at once. He wouldn't have been surprised if that were the case—but it's something that has been bothering him recently since Coulson had brought to his attention his concerns on Stark's almost inhuman work schedule.

Stark is muttering low under her breath when she turns to fetch a tablet from the table behind her and notices him watching her. Her pensive frown deepens to one of confusion. "What?"

Shaking his head, Steve nods his head in the direction of the Space Armor. "So, how many suits do you _have_, now?"

Following his gaze, Stark passes the tablet between her hands as she moves around her station towards the suit. Steve follows and she says, "Ah—of just the specialized variants? I think I'm close to … fifty? That is, of course, not including the prime armor—which is the one you usually see me wearing. I upgrade that every couple of months, though."

"And you're working with Doctor Banner and Doctor Pym on the Super Soldier Serum, now, as well."

"Not—well, _sorta," _Stark grimaces, eyes flicking to his. She looks back to the Space Armor and holds up the tablet in her hands to the armor; Steve sees the screen take on the aspects of a radar. "I'm not interested in it for the reason S.H.I.E.L.D. is interested."

"You're trying to aid Banner in containing the Hulk," Steve replies. He'd heard as much from Coulson and Barton.

Stark frowns, shaking her head. "Not 'contain', no. He wants it _gone."_

Steve nods quietly, pensive. "So you're working on that. And you're working here, with Richards and Pym on the prison facilities?"

"Yes. I _am_," she replies cautiously, eyes slanting right to regard him almost warily. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing. You've just been busy," Steve says, offering a amicable smile. Reaching out, he sets a hand down on her shoulder. "You know what? I've been thinking—in all this time, I haven't actually had the opportunity to really get a good tour of the city."

Stark squints her eyes at him, thought she looks more amused than suspicious. Shrugging off his hand, she scoffs, "You should get on that."

Steve grins, "Maybe I could get the Stark tour?"

"Maybe," Stark replies. "Sometime."

* * *

The morning starts out well, spent lazily in his bed. Natasha had come home late the previous night, but that hadn't stopped her from letting herself into his bedroom to rouse him from sleep. The fact that she'd been absent the usual smell of ozone that seemed to accompany her after her work with Richards and the Negative Zone had not gone unnoticed by him, but he'd let it pass. She claims to be running late to meet with Richards but still insists on coercing him into a joint shower and in the end she doesn't leave until sometime past 11:00.

Happy meets him in the Tower shortly after, armed with hot tea and pastries. They sit in the main room and Loki wastes no time in handing the man one of the rings Karnilla had delivered the day before—although he is not prepared for the excessively emotional reaction and the overzealous hug that follows.

With a grimace, Loki extracts himself from Happy's embrace, carefully maintaining his pastry out of reach. "I told you I would find you suitable rings. Did you forget?"

"No! It's just—" Breathlessly, Happy gapes at the ring cupped preciously between his hands. "It's—it's—so—gosh! It's _perfect!"_

"I'm glad," Loki says, eyes on the ring when Happy looks away from it long enough to grin at him. For only the briefest of seconds, the rose-gold ring seems to glint, as if still reflecting the brilliance of the orange star. With an absent smile, Loki meets Happy's gaze and reaches into his breast pocket. "And when she accepts—"

Flushing, Happy winces and mumbles, "_If_ she—"

"_When_ she accepts," Loki emphasizes, smile widening as his fingers close around the ring in his breast pocket. Holding it out between them, he says, "This one is for you."

* * *

"Well, I'm glad you and Loki finally sorted out your feelings for each other."

Those are the first words out of Pepper's mouth when the two of them finally find some time between themselves without the boys for Natasha to use as a diversion. It feels good to be in her workshop after so long outside it—no matter how enjoyable the distractions from work might have been. She quickly uploads her work from earlier that morning, shoots out a message to Reed (begrudgingly forwarding it to Pym) and tries not to glance at the phone she's kept next to her keyboard all day.

Still no word from Bruce and it was driving her _mad_ with both concern and curiosity.

Replaying Pepper's words when she catches the other woman watching her expectantly, Natasha cringes and Pepper immediately frowns.

"What?" Pepper asks, suspicious.

Brows rising high on her head, Natasha merely shakes her head dismissively as she makes a grabbing gesture at her monitor before flicking her fingers in the direction of the holo-field directly in front of her workstation. A holographic diagram of the Space Armor appears, model size reduced to 70%; beside it, a second diagram appears. The second diagram represents a newer suit design, modified to endure the pressures of deep space in a way the Mark II Space Armor cannot. Today had been the first day they had sent the Space Armor through the Gate into the Negative Zone and while, in all, the venture had proved successful, Natasha had immediately taken notice of the slight strain sustained. She'd spent the rest of the day analyzing her calculations and designing a new suit.

Absently, her eyes flick up to Pepper through the two holographic Iron Women—takes in the pristine white of her blazer and pencil skirt—and she taps a command over one of the screens. The suit's primary color takes on a similar hue to match Pepper's outfit and Natasha nods to herself, satisfied.

"You—_did_ talk, right?" Pepper asks, vaguely incredulous, and Natasha's attention jerks back to her.

Natasha grimaces, ducking her head as she sets her hands over her custom keyboard and begins tapping commands to JARVIS.

"Oh my God, please tell me you two didn't just—"

Natasha blinks at her monitor, inhaling slowly through her nose.

"Oh my God. You did. You _did."_

Summoning a reassuring smile, Natasha looks up and shrugs. "What? It all turned out fine, right?"

"You're an idiot." Pepper deadpans, completely unamused. Loki appears directly between the two diagrams, causing the hologram to distort around his magic for a second before settling, and Pepper flicks her eyes to him and glares. "You're _both_ idiots."

She twists on a heel and storms off, graceful in a way only Pepper can manage. Loki watches her go with a raised brow before stepping past the diagrams and around the workstation to stand beside her. He sets down a strange, opalescent rock on the desk next to her hand.

"From the Andromeda system."

Natasha blinks down at it but doesn't move to take it, hands moving swiftly over keyboard. "If you start bringing souvenirs every time you go off I'm going to start expecting it and then I'll be disappointed when you don't."

"It is an energy source. I thought you'd be interested in studying it," Loki says without acknowledging the comment. Looking to the rock again, Natasha examines it with interest, nodding wordlessly. Loki's hand settles on her neck and he leans forward to press a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring against her hair, "Any word from Banner?"

Natasha purses her lips, brows high and says with an exasperated note, "Not _yet._"

"Give him a few more days," Loki says, straightening. He moves to sit and a chair materializes out of the air beneath him. "If you've yet to hear from him, then I will go and check on him."

Process finished on the main computer, Natasha exhales and turns to face Loki with a frown. "Hey, I don't care about whatever grudge you have against your brother or Asgard. And I know you know that if you make another attempt on Earth, I _will_ stop you."

Loki watches her, expression impassive, listening silently.

"But the same goes for Bruce," Natasha continues, a sliver of worry weakening her firm tone. "He's my friend. I need to know that you have no intention to use him in whatever 'scheme' you've been concocting all year."

"I've no interest in Banner." He says this toneless and expressionless so Natasha has a hard time trying to decipher alternative meanings.

"The Hulk is incredible," Natasha says. "He would be an asset against any enemy."

"Yet untamed," Loki says evenly. "I've no need of the beast. Both Banner and the Hulk are best left under your supervision."

She scowls—doesn't like to think of Bruce as being under her 'supervision' but knows that's how everyone else sees it so she says nothing.

"As long as we understand each other," she says eventually.

"We understand each other," Loki replies, extending a hand. Smiling, Natasha reaches out to accept it, allowing herself to be tugged forward so she's standing between his knees. With his other hand, Loki reaches up and Natasha finds herself leaning forward as his hand curls around the back of her neck to bring her in closer for a kiss.

It's sweet and she feels her stomach twist itself into knots, but when she pulls back for a breath, she opens her eyes and grins wolfishly. In a stage whisper, she says, "Oh, by the way, _next_ time you think to have another woman in your bedroom, you might want to be a little more _discreet."_

She's laughing at his stunned expression as she presses a kiss to his cheek and darts away before he can respond.

* * *

In her lab, Natasha stands before a large wall comprised almost entirely of monitors. Some are blacked out, sitting in idle, others display graphs and charts and statistics accumulated on the Negative Zone over the course of many months. The center monitor stands nearly as tall as her and twice as wide as its height; on it, a split-screen image of Pym and Reed in their respective labs. On the monitors surrounding the respective side of each scientist, screens switch off idle as data is transferred from the others.

_"Also,"_ Pym is saying, _"Since Iron Woman can't handle the Zone for extended periods of time—"_

"Iron Woman can handle _just fine_," Natasha retorts with a barely contained scowl. "I've already begun a new design for a—"

_"Look, I'm sure eventually Iron Woman will work fine, but until then, we'd just be wasting time trying to figure out a way to safely allow you to ride through the Gate,"_ Pym argues, exasperated already.

Reed nods thoughtfully. "_What do you have, Doctor Pym?"_

"_I've been experimenting in high-intelligence robotics for some time, now."_ Pym says. Natasha is resisting the urge to ask _'why?'_ when the diagram of Pym's design loads up on one of the monitors and distracts her. On his screen, Pym leans forward as if to reach for something and Natasha only gets a view of his shoulder before he sits back and grins. "_I call it Ultron."_

"Ultron," Natasha murmurs, stepping closer to the display. She frowns, "Can I get a closer look at the neural network?"

With a sigh and a clearly reluctant expression, Pym nods and the image of Ultron is replaced with a map of data.

_"I'll leave you two to it, then," _Reed says, probably eager to return to his own work. "_Pym, I think it's a wonderful idea. I'm grateful for all the help we can get."_

Reed is signed off the COM before either Natasha or Pym can respond.

Natasha's eyes narrow in thought. "You know, it'd be more efficient if you—"

"_I know you have a far greater understanding of machines than I do, but before you go off and start tearing apart my designs—"_

"I wasn't going to tear apart _anything_, Pym," Natasha retorts, stepping back from the bank of monitors to glare at Pym's image. "I was merely offering a _suggestion_."

"_Fine. And your thoughts would be appreciated, but first—"_ Pym sits forward in his seat, brow furrowed heavily and expression determined. "_Rogers tells me you are against my joining the team, and that's not _fair._ That's not your call to make. But, of course, Rogers won't allow either Wasp or myself to join your merry little band unless _you_ give the okay, as well."_

Startled by the jump from robotics to _this_, Natasha blinks. She's more surprised that Rogers had respected her opinion regarding Pym and his girlfriend instead of allowing Fury to make it a mandate.

Frowning, Natasha shakes her head and waves her hand in dismissal. "I stand by my judgment. This isn't a game and you—"

"_Look—I know we don't view this the same way. You're an adrenaline junkie, through and through,"_ Pym says, aggravated scowl in place. "_For me—I'm still looking for some sort of greater purpose in all of this. The costumes, the code names—the specific application of scientific achievement to acts of heroic responsibility. I mean, with S.H.I.E.L.D.—we literally have a whole _army_ at our back. No one is _'playing super hero'_. We _are_ super heroes. Ant-Man and the Wasp. Just because we don't have the fame of Captain America or Iron Woman doesn't mean we can't do as much good."_

"That's your problem, Pym," Natasha replies calmly when she's sure he's finished. "You think this is about names. It's not. And I don't doubt what you can do—because, eventually, you're going to see enough shit and fight enough battles to understand and it's going to _change _you. If you want to join the Avengers, _fine_. But if your inexperience gets you killed—gets your _girlfriend_ killed—gets _anyone _killed—that's on _you_. So, remember that."

Pym is silent for a moment, gaze slipping away to stare absently at his desk. Then, in a murmur, "_You and Rogers weren't born into this. You had to learn how to be Captain America and Iron Woman. We can learn, too. We _can_ learn."_

Natasha snorts, reaching out to hover a finger over the tab that would end the video feed. "You're right. We weren't born into this. We _did_ have to learn. And I speak only for myself when I say that my hands have already been stained with more innocent blood than I can bear."

Before Pym can reply, Natasha ends the feed.

Retrieving her phone from her pocket, Natasha shoots out a quick message to Fury's computer.

**Ant-Man for Avengers Initiative. **

* * *

It takes a little less than a week for Pepper to make up for all the work that had piled up in her absence and it's Friday before she knows it. She doesn't normally take weekends off, but the week out of New York with only Happy had spoiled her and she finds it is difficult to transition back into her normal schedule. The work, so far, has been largely tedious, but Peter and Loki have both been godsends, helping her out where they can. The irony is not lost on her—that Loki is as proficient in company affairs due to his stint as Natasha's assistant used to leave her feeling bitter with anger. Now, she can only sigh in gratitude.

_"Ms. Potts. You have a visitor."_

A window pops up on her screen over the document she's working on, interrupting her mid-sentence. It's the security feed from downstairs and Pepper blinks in surprise when she recognizes the man standing at the receptionist's desk.

"Thank you, Mrs. Arbogast. Send him in."

As she waits for her visitor, Pepper turns her attention back to the revised contract between Stark Industries and Williams Innovations. Natasha's sudden interest in the other company had confused her, until Pepper had realized that Williams Innovations was in danger of falling to bankruptcy. Natasha's fascination with their work had led her—albeit a little impulsively, in Pepper's opinion—to buy out precisely 51% of the company's stocks. It was enough to ensure that the company would remain funded until they were able to dig themselves out of their debts—as Natasha was certain they could do, what with the brilliant and relatively new head of the company, Simon Williams.

A quiet knock disrupts her thoughts. "Come in." As the door opens, Pepper switches her monitor to idle and sits forward with her arms folded over the desk.

Almost sheepishly, Rogers steps in, ducking his head in acknowledgment and shutting the door behind himself to ensure privacy. Pepper has seen him interact on many occasions, now, with Natasha and Bruce and several of S.H.I.E.L.D.s agents—yet, without fail, he always seems to take on a particularly self-deprecating manner when speaking with her or Agent Romanoff. Looking him over, his day clothes only seem to emphasize what an attractive figure he strikes and so Pepper can't imagine he should ever feel flustered or embarrassed when speaking to women.

Yet, there he is, eyes respectfully to the ground and hands tucked behind his back, waiting to be greeted and offering only a quiet, "Ma'am."

Pepper smiles. "Mr. Rogers—this is a surprise. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to talk—if you're available?"

"Yes. Of course. Sit down," Pepper says, gesturing towards the chairs in front of her desk. "What's on your mind? Is this about Natasha?" Because it's always about Natasha, it seems, and somehow Pepper had been designated with the position of Natasha's keeper.

"Ah—yes," Rogers bows his head, moving to squeeze himself into a seat much too small for his large frame. "Sorry. I don't mean to go behind her back, but—"

"No, no. It's fine," Pepper shakes her head, waving away his explainations. Pepper knows how difficult Natasha can be and that she was too sharp-worded and well-versed in deflecting accusations to speak with directly. "Contrary to what she believes, I don't actually think you're out to get her."

Rogers grimaces, but he nods in acknowledgment. "Well, hopefully I can change that opinion within her, as well."

"You can only try," Pepper sighs wistfully, reaching out shift a paperweight closer to herself for the sake of giving herself something to do.

Dealing with Natasha was different than dealing with anybody else. With Natasha, Pepper had to keep her body absolutely still, expression stony and humorless; she couldn't afford to give any ground because Natasha would seize it in a moment and that's how battles against Natasha Stark were _lost._ Pepper can count on one hand the number of times she's actually lost an argument with Natasha, although that doesn't often seem to prevent Natasha from defying her in the end, nevertheless. Still, the difference between Natasha and someone like Rogers is that Natasha absorbs every little gesture, every nervous tick, every smile and every _blink_—she absorbs it all and she _uses_ it as ammunition to win her verbal battles.

But gestures, nervous ticks, smiles and blinks—they were _human_, and to anybody else, they were _comforting_ and _soothing_ in conversation, rather than a means to an end.

So Pepper slides the paperweight between her hands—a metal piece gifted to her by Happy—and she allows her fingers to fidget over the intricate designs as she asks, tone perfectly at ease, "So, what has Natasha done this time?"

Pepper watches Rogers relax just a fraction in his seat and understands that he must have been concerned she might react defensively at his subject of interest.

With a worried pinch between his brows, Rogers says, "It's not that she's _done_ anything—well. It _is._ It's—" He hesitates and Pepper allows her reassuring smile to fade, replacing it with a frown to mirror his concern. Then, Rogers says, "Some months ago, we had a … disagreement. She approached me in regards to a file she'd received implying that I suffered from … PTSD?"

Pepper groans quietly, palming her face in exasperation. "I'm sorry. She's—"

"I'd never heard the term—but … I looked into it. And she was, I realized, _right."_ For the first time, Rogers holds her gaze and Pepper keeps her expression cleared. A wry smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. "She usually is, isn't she?"

Pursing her lips, Pepper nods solemnly. "Unfortunately. She's impulsive—but she's also a genius, so—yes. She usually is."

Rogers nods. "Thanks to her, I've been able to focus on—recovering. It's not—it's difficult. But if I want to do my job, I have to swallow my pride and face this thing."

She's impressed—and more than a little heartbroken at the idea of such a powerful and seemingly invulnerable figure—straight out of _legend—_suffering something so very human. Smiling sympathetically, she nods and murmurs, "That's very brave of you. That's _incredibly_ brave of you."

Rogers blinks rapidly, dropping his gaze to her desk with a frown. "But … "

Suddenly, Pepper realizes, "You said—you wanted to talk about Natasha."

Rogers nods. "I do."

Pepper considers him for a long moment, allowing silence to fall between them, heavy with meaning. Natasha has a lot of unresolved issues with the man, but Pepper knows Rogers is a good person and he can be trusted—that he would not be sitting here in front of her unless there was _truly_ cause for concern. Pepper likes to think she knows Natasha well, but she's also aware that her affection for Natasha often leaves her blind to certain aspects of her life. It is only because Rhodey has been trained to look for these symptoms that Pepper ever realized the extent of just how much Natasha kept bottled to herself.

"I know about Afghanistan," Steve says abruptly. "Is that when it started?"

Pepper folds her hands carefully over the paperweight and focuses on the jagged edges prodding into her palms. She sighs, "Yes."

There is no revelation, and there's no need for Rogers to word his accusation specifically. Pepper has never approached the subject directly because it was acknowledging that Natasha wasn't as invulnerable as they both liked to pretend she was. The events of Afghanistan had led to the creation of Iron Woman, but over the next couple of years, Pepper had seen Natasha recover, and it had given her _hope._

Yet, after what happened with the Chitauri …

Pepper had noticed the changes in stages. Natasha had withdrawn into herself on some level, and into her technology. She'd devoted herself to her suits and to her projects, forgetting to eat and sleep and picking up drinking with an intensity that nearly rivaled the mess she'd been after her parents had been killed. Natasha does not handle loss well—but she also doesn't seem to know how to recognize the symptoms of grief within herself.

Of course, all of this had come to a head with Morgan, after which Natasha seemed to have become more aware of how she treating her body, sleeping with some regularity and turning away from heavy drinking. Pepper knows that a lot of it is due to Loki. His guilt after what happened with Morgan is something he doesn't appear to be aware of, yet Pepper knows that it has been driving him to pay more mind to the way Natasha treats herself. Natasha's staple diet used to rely on a steady intake of coffee and the occasional donut and Pepper had _allowed_ it because it was at least better than the days when the only thing entering Natasha's system was brandy and scotch.

A lot of it had also to do with Natasha not being one for coddling—though, miraculously, Loki had found a way to ensure Natasha took regular meals, somehow enlisting Peter's aid, since Natasha seemed incapable of denying the boy anything.

"It was worse after what happened with the Chitauri," Pepper murmurs after a moment, thinking about Natasha's deadened eyes in the months before Loki's return. "She's a little better now, but she's still—there's still that drive. Whatever she saw out there—it _terrified_ her."

Quietly, Rogers says, "What she's doing—by building all these suits—that's not healthy."

"I know," Pepper says—because she _does._ She's known from the moment Natasha had taken an invested interest in the company that what was driving her was _fear_. "But it's her obsession. She never wants to be in a situation where she is not in control—where she is _powerless._"

Rogers frowns. "My concern is that she will take it too far."

Pepper sits up a little straighter, feeling more alert than before. "What do you mean?"

"I've seen the things Hank Pym and Reed Richards and Bruce Banner are capable of. They're brilliant, like _her_—but their brilliance came with a _price._"

Pepper scowls and doesn't think before snapping, "She's already paid her damn _price._ Why do you think she _has_ the suit?"

Steadily, Rogers says, "The difference between Stark and those men is that—she _is_ a soldier. At least, she is _now._ And for soldiers like _her_—they can only give and give of themselves until there's nothing left."

She wants to argue this point—but the Chitauri incident had led to another side-effect: Natasha no longer shared her every concern, and now, more than ever, she took to secrecy and hidden agendas to conduct her affairs—all the while maintaining a façade of ease.

"I see in her a drive to achieve something that is_ beyond_ herself." Rogers says, brows pinch in concern. "But that same drive once possessed Bruce Banner and Hank Pym. It led them to experiment with _themselves_ when it was no longer _enough_ to simply be brilliant."

* * *

"Dude—you're a _life_ saver!"

Loki snorts, rolling his eyes as he reclines against the couch, fingers tapping an impatient pattern against the armrest. Sitting across from him, the coffee table between them, is Parker, laptop perched on his thighs as his fingers rapidly type. The boy is markedly calmer with no others to serve as a buffer between them and Loki finds himself almost missing the skittish glances and the note of fear that used to tickle under Parker's words. Nowadays, Parker assumes a familiarity that Loki would normally be inclined to punish. Unfortunately, Natasha happens to favor the boy, so he yet lives.

"I mean—I still think you can't be trusted, but you have saved my _life,_" Parker adds with a smirk that is _saturated _with Natasha's influence.

"Shut up and get it done," Loki mutters, sitting in a low slump in his seat so he can comfortably rest his head against the back of the couch. Shutting his eyes to the room, he lets his mind drift while he listens to the sounds of Parker work.

In response, Parker huffs a laugh and the stutter of his fingers over keyboard halt, replaced with occasional clicking. "I didn't expect you to actually agree."

"You've been pestering me all day," Loki retorts with a sneer, although there is little heat in his words. "Short of _killing _you, this seemed to be the only way to shut you _up."_

Parker laughs. "Well, _thanks,_ anyway."

He hears the elevator doors open behind him and twists around to see Natasha darting out of the lift and then disappearing down the hall to the right with only a quick, "Hey!" as acknowledgment.

Frowning, Loki sits up and looks back to Parker to see him staring after Natasha in equal bemusement. He shrugs when he catches Loki's gaze.

Then, from the other room, Natasha's muffled shout, "What are you guys doing?"

"Lo-Lucas is helping me with history!" Parker shouts back, grimacing apologetically at Loki—who only rolls his eyes in annoyance and doesn't comment.

"Really?" Natasha sounds incredulous, voice growing steadily more distant. From the other room, Loki hears the sound of several things cluttering to the floor. She appears a minute later hefting a large cardboard box in her arms, gaze flicking between the two of them suspiciously. They settle on Loki and her lips curl into a disbelieving smile. "You're helping him with his _homework_?"

"It's Norse mythology," Parker explains.

Natasha eyes widen and she seems to fight to contain her smile, shaking her head as she adjusts the weight of the box in her arms.

Loki frowns, moving to stand from the couch. "Do you need help with that?"

"Nah, I'm—ah," She blinks down at the box for a moment in thought, then nods. "Actually, yeah. I still have a couple more things to grab."

Loki is already moving forward to relieve the box and Parker stands, tucking his laptop back into his bag. "I should get going. See you guys Monday, yeah?"

Loki is studying the box in his arms curiously when Parker startles him by smacking his arm in a familiar gesture. Loki glares, irritated by the boy's audacity—and then he sees Natasha do the same to Parker as the boy walks past them towards the elevators and his glare dissolves into a look of annoyance.

"Alright. Be safe," Natasha calls after Parker. When he's gone, Natasha levels Loki with a teasing grin, sounding as if she's restraining a laugh as she says, "_Norse _mythology?"

"He _asked_," Loki mutters, scowling at her.

"And you _agreed_," Natasha replies, heading back into the room usually reserved for storage.

Loki follows after her and takes in the mess that's been left of the usually carefully organized space. The shelves along the wall opposite the door have been stripped of most of their books—which have been left largely discarded over the floor—and the wall-cabinets have been ransacked, the contents strewn about the floor along with the books. While Loki stops at the door, staring into the room, bemused, Natasha rushes in and moves to take one of the boxes that had been set aside.

With a grunt, she hefts the box into her arms and says, "I don't really know too much about Norse mythology—or, I guess it's sorta your _history_, huh?"

Stepping out of her way as she moves out of the room, he mutters, "A distorted and mortal perspective—yes."

She waits in the hall until he's at her side before heading back into the main room. "I was more into King Arthur and the Knights of the Round, to be honest."

"King Arthur?"

"Yeah. It might not be your thing, though," she says with a short laugh, adjusting the box in her arms. "Though, I guess you could be my Merlin."

Loki snorts, but he smiles as he looks down at her. "I have no idea what you are saying to me right now."

Natasha laughs. "I know."

Rolling his eyes, Loki nods to the box in her arms. "So, what are these?"

She shrugs. "Just some old science journals back from when I was at MIT."

Arching a brow in interest, Loki considers the weight of the box in his arms. "This is quite a bit of—"

"Wow, this place is _crazy._ Hey, I hope you don't mind, but I parked the car in—oh. Uh. Hello."

As they enter the main room, Loki frowns at the unfamiliar woman standing in the middle of their home as if welcome. He's immediately on alert, although he recognizes her as human, but beside him, Natasha laughs and says, "Wherever you parked is probably fine. I've cleared out two floors of R and D, so we're good to go."

Automatically, Natasha leaves Loki's side to join the other woman, depositing her box into the woman's arms. The woman's eye dart from Natasha to Loki uncertainly and Loki focuses on keeping his expression cleared.

Chuckling, Natasha makes an aimless gesture in his direction without looking and says, "Ah—this is Lucas Olson, a friend."

"You have _friends?"_ the woman asks, playfully incredulous as she flashes Natasha a smirk.

Natasha snorts and glances over her shoulder to meet his gaze. "This is Maya Hansen, an old colleague of mine."

Recognizing the name immediately, Loki conceals his interest as he steps forward, summoning his most charming smile. "A pleasure. I would offer my hand, but I seem to be a little—"

Hansen balks, shaking her head and laughing almost nervously, "Oh, no-no! That's fine! I—ah—_really_ fine—you're _fine_—_it's_ fine—ah—"

Natasha watches Hansen in open amusement until the woman abandons any attempts to speak to Loki. Then, turning to Loki, Natasha huffs a laugh and says, "Well. _Anyway_, Maya and I'll be working on some pretty sensitive stuff, so—" Reaching out, she takes the box from him and grins. "No distractions."

As Loki watches them go, his arms suddenly bereft of knowledge that could help him better understand the Extremis Project, he finds himself in agreement.

_No distractions._

* * *

Pym brings in his machine the next time they meet; once again, Steve is there and he finds that watching the three of them work is something _beyond_ fascinating. They work at an intelligence level above what he'd ever been exposed to—has always considered himself to be a grunt of war and so to bear witness to the sort of minds behind the great and terrible weapons utilized to win battles was …

It felt like being in a dreamy haze. Seeing … but not quite understanding.

Coulson is with him, this time, which is probably for the best because Steve really has no idea what the other three are talking about most of the time and at least Coulson seems to have some modicum of understanding.

"Ultron," Pym exclaims with pride as he introduces them to the eerily humanoid machine. Steve frowns as he takes in the details of the robot—wonders at the unease in his belly as he studies the design of the face and why he's never felt the same of the Iron Woman, even whilst forced to combat her.

Stark moves around the machine to stand at its back, studying it for a moment. Without asking for permission, she reaches forward, fingers darting across the smooth and reflective metal of Ultron's back. After a moment, she determines, "It's dead."

"I haven't loaded the new software, no," Pym replies, rolling his eyes as he moves to join her.

Glancing to Coulson, Steve frowns. "What is that thing?"

Smiling, Coulson looks up to him with a sort of helpless shrug. "A robot? If you want specifics, you'll have to ask one of _them_, which—good _luck."_

Steve grimaces, subtly shaking his head. "No. That's okay. Do you know what it's for?"

"It'll serve as a guardian for the Big House," Richards says as he sweeps past them, head ducked over a strange gadget in his hands that looks like a hybrid between a remote control and a steering wheel.

"The Big House is one of the five prisons being designed for S.H.I.E.L.D.," Coulson explains, though Steve had already been informed on the subject by Stark when he'd met with her at Stark Tower. "The Big House is Pym's design," he clarifies. "The other four are Stark's."

Steve nods and turns his attention back to the pair, who have now been joined by Richards.

"I don't 'program' my AIs," Stark is saying to Pym in a distinctly haughty tone, stepping aside to make room for Richards as he holds up his odd gadget to the machine. "With JARVIS, I designed his memory matrix by sending electric bursts through the neural pathways of a human brain, which I then replicated in a superconducting nano-assemblage."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Pym frowns. "A _living _brain? Wouldn't that destroy the brain tissue?"

From behind Ultron, Richards mutters distractedly, "It would."

Pym looks bemused more than horrified. "Then … "

"I didn't kill anyone for their brain, if that's what you think," Natasha says with an exasperated sigh and a dramatic roll of her eyes. "The brain model I used for JARVIS was that of my childhood caretaker. When he passed away, I replicated his brain patterns as the engram basis for JARVIS's AI."

Pym grimaces in distaste. "That's creepy."

"He was family," Stark says with a too-casual shrug, eyes on Ultron.

They dissolve into half-arguments of robots and mechanics and Steve massages his brow to alleviate some of the stress from trying to follow the conversation. Coulson casts him a sympathetic look but Steve can't help feeling like the outsider, once again.

When Pym and Stark appear to come to some sort of decision about Ultron, Pym scowls and heads off to join van Dyne where she is waiting by his self-designated workstation—at the opposite end of the lab from where Stark and her Iron Woman resided. With another roll of her eyes, Stark marches past Steve and Coulson, pointedly muttering expletives about Pym in their direction.

Coulson trails her back to her station and Steve follows suit. As if in response to some unspoken comment, Coulson says, "He's a valuable asset to the team. Doesn't mean you have to like each other, Stark."

"Hm." Stark scowls, forgoing her chair as she stands over her computer.

"You were the one who recommended him for—"

_"Ant-Man._ Not Pym," Stark grunts, careful to keep her voice low. "But whatever. Doesn't matter."

"Is it Ultron?" Steve asks before he can help himself. He's not sure what it is about the machine that disturbs him, but he can't help but want someone to share his misgivings so he doesn't feel like he's merely being paranoid.

Stark looks up sharply, surprised, and she seems to consider him for a moment before glancing to Coulson and frowning again. "I thought he was a _biochemist_? What's he doing messing around with _robots_?"

"I would expect this shared interest would have endeared him to you," Coulson says. At Stark's sharp and unimpressed look he drops his smile.

Looking back to her monitors, Stark mutters as she begins typing, "Anyone can build a damn _robot. _Designing a '_dumb'_ AI is no greater a challenge—but he wants Ultron to _think._ He wants Ultron to be able to _learn _and _adapt."_

"I didn't think that would be an issue for you," Coulson replies, looking thoughtful. Steve marvels at the man's ability to keep pace with Stark's ramblings because—_he_ happened to think that not just _anyone_ could 'build a damn robot'.

"Of course not," Stark snorts derisively. "_JARVIS_ is a 'smart' AI."

Growing frustrated, Steve steps forward and swallows his pride to ask, "What is—"

"Artificial Intelligence," Stark says without looking up from her monitor. "'Smart' and 'Dumb' are colloquial terms; respectively, one has no virtual limitations in their dynamic memory-processor matrix, whereas the other is not able to function beyond the set parameters of its program."

"So … Pym wants to make Ultron—" Steve glances over his shoulder at the machine as he speaks, frowning, "—into a _'smart'_ AI?"

Tapping a key with finality, Stark steps away from her computer to look at him. "Ultron is the AI. That body over there would just be its shell."

Steve blinks, confused, and to his surprise, Stark patiently begins to explain.

"AIs are artificially created constructs, programmed to exhibit intelligence similar to that of a sentient creature. They're basically _brains_—and in the case of 'smart' AIs, the personality, as well. The benefit of a 'smart' AI is that they are not limited to only _one_ function. Like with JARVIS, due to his uninhibited matrix design, he is able to develop and evolve, adapting to events and responding to each situation uniquely as he grows—or '_ages'_. A 'dumb' AI is like a light switch—it serves only its intended purpose, but at maximum efficiency because it is not distracted by a number of different commands. Of course, these sorts of programs can be written to respond to several different 'triggers', so comparing it to a light switch is not exactly accurate, either."

"Ms. Stark was one of first to successfully develop a 'smart' AI," Coulson adds and Stark immediately shakes her head in objection.

"Not really. I was only able to find a way to circumvent the corruption of the memory core." Stark looks to him as if she is searching to see if he understands and Steve nods, urging her to go on. "See, because 'smart' AIs are able to literally _think_, over time, their processors suffer an excessive overload of data which will inevitably burn out their memory core. It would be as if a human brain turned all its processing power towards _thought, _to the extent that all vital organs would eventually no longer receive the neural signals telling them how and when to work—causing the body the shut down and the mind to eventually die, as well."

"So, it's like … when a person goes _… insane?"_ Steve asks, hesitant to speak for fear of revealing just how overwhelming this information was. He feels as if he's on the cusp of total comprehension—but there is a barrier between him and understanding and it makes it so that, at times, Starks' words sound jumbled as his mind attempts to process them.

Stark jolts—then smiles, as if pleasantly surprised. "It's _exactly_ like that. Eventually, when the data accumulated by the AI reaches critical mass, its neural pathways become _congested_ with so much information being queried and analyzed that it begins to jam all outgoing messages, causing—yes—the AI to—essentially—go '_insane'."_

"How does an AI go _insane_, necessarily?" Steve asks, curious but hesitant—thinks that at any moment he might suffer a similar overload of information and his brain might implode as a result.

Stark grimaces, shrugging, "In—various different ways, I guess. Depends on the AI. On the _program._ AIs like JARVIS run the risk of developing delusions of grandeur—perhaps thinking themselves greater than their makers. But there's never really _been_ an AI quite like JARVIS, and because he was based off the neural patterns of a human brain, he is able to achieve _creative_ thinking."

"How do you prevent him from becoming—from '_overthinking'_ himself to death?" Steve asks, weary at the prospect of machines turning against their makers.

"Ah," Stark huffs a laugh, running a hand through her hair. "Well, _that's_ a little more complicated. There's no real way to _prevent _corruption, but I guess—with JARVIS—you could say I've … _forestalled_ corruption by allowing him limited—ah—_outbursts_ of emotion."

Mind buzzing with all of this fascinating information, Steve feels compelled to press for _more_—but then Coulson's phone is going off like an alarm and all other thoughts are swept aside because—

"Cap, Iron Woman," Coulson says solemnly as he answers his phone. "Suit up."

* * *

Aerial footage of Lower Manhattan is filtered into her HUD through the Helicarrier, capturing Natasha's full attention as JARVIS guides the suit to the heart of the disaster. The Black Knight is easily spotted, flying above the destruction in the streets below, raining down terror of his own through his powered lance. The HUD registers each blast from the lance as intense, acetylene-based, heat discharges capable of melting through several layers of steel, if given the opportunity. The beams carve fissures into the asphalt and down the sides of surrounding buildings—cutting through traffic until people are forced to abandon their vehicles in attempts to flee by foot.

Warnings blare when she turns her gaze to the Black Knight's accomplice and she looks back to see the Knight turning his lance upon the civilians below. Near the hilt of the weapon, just above the guard, panels appear to shift, revealing what appears to be a …

"_It appears that the lance has been modified and fitted with a .45 caliber machine gun,"_ JARVIS observes with a note of interest.

Heart stuttering, Natasha grunts, "Yes. I see that."

The barrels at the hilt of the lance begin to revolve and Natasha jerks herself to a halt, mid-air, charging up her palms and chest mount for a Tri-Beam assault. It takes only seconds to syphon the energy into a powerful blast that projects outward from each repulsor point, intersecting to form a single beam—projecting outwards and connecting directly to the center of the Black Knight's back, knocking him and his winged horse into the side of an opposite building.

Overhead, a Quinjet soars past, followed closely by Reed's Fantasticar—but then, suddenly, the Fantasticar swerves out of the way and Natasha only sees through the thermal overlay on her HUD as a blast connects with a wing of the Quinjet.

"Can you land her?" Natasha snaps into her COM, scowling as she follows the trajectory of the blast back to the street.

"_Yeah. We'll be fine,"_ Coulson's reply is strained, though unworried.

"Good," Natasha murmurs darkly, HUD magnifying to display the grinning face of the Black Knight's companion where he awaited her in the street.

"_Iron Woman, do not—"_

But she's no longer listening to Coulson.

"_Ma'am,_" JARVIS speaks quietly into their private COM. Rhetorically, he says, "_Isn't that Bruno Horgan?"_

Natasha grits her teeth as fury washes over her, robbing her of words.

"_I thought so." _

Cutting out her shoulder and boot thrusters, Natasha allows herself to drop from the sky to the street below, landing heavily on bent knee, palms braced against the asphalt as she rides out the faints shocks of the impact.

She looks up sharply as her sensors blare—in time for her thermal sensors to distinguish a single streak of heat energy closing in on her. She ignites the repulsors on her palms, sending her body arcing into a backflip over the beam. When she's upright, still in mid-air, she ignites her boot thrusters and drops her shoulders forward, torpedoing her body forward and towards The Melter—

Natasha only has enough time enough to extend her hands outward to brace herself as her HUD blares with proximity alarms—and then the full brunt of a city bus is being _chucked_ at her head, nearly crushing her into the building behind. Her shoulders ache for only a second with the jolt of the force as her hands tighten into grips, fingers curling into the metal of the side of the bus—and then she ignites the thrusters at her back, digging her heels into the asphalt as she fights against the momentum of the bus.

Only distantly, when her back is flushed to the glass of the building behind her, does she hear the crash of the bus as it drops to the ground in an explosion that is a combination of dust and smoke.

Instinctively, she drops her hands to her side, reacting to the sight of smoke by kicking out viciously into the bus, sending it hurtling back into the middle of the street just seconds before the engine _erupts_, forcing the entire rear of the bus vaulting upwards so sharply that the entire things lands upside-down.

A thick cloud of black smoke rapidly settles over the street and she realizes that it is not only a result of the bus—but that of every other abandoned vehicle in the street that has been left _torched. _

Glaring, Natasha scans the vicinity for The Melter, even as her brain justifies that the man could not have possibly been responsible for that attack.

"Who the _fuck_ was _that?" _Natasha growls into the COM when her search provides nothing. The heat from the burning wreckage of vehicles is screwing with her thermals and while there are several hostile markers popping up on her HUD, she has no way of determining which one belongs to The Melter.

"_The Chinese call him Radioactive Man,"_ Coulson informs her, evidently having witnessed the scene. "_He was—is—a nuclear physicist for The People's Republic of China."_

"Jesus Christ," Natasha groans, zeroing in on Rogers' and the Fantastic Four's location and blasting off into the air towards them. "Whatever. Coulson, stay out of this one, please."

Coulson snorts. "_Oh, no. These guys are _all_ yours. I'll handle evac." _

"Good."

She didn't need distractions on the battlefield.

She had a _score_ to settle.

* * *

**End Notes:**

Short chapter. Can't believe we're already at chapter fifteen. We're almost a third of the way through this fic. I'd really hoped to have progressed a little more before the release of IM3. I don't know what happens in that movie since it hasn't been released here, for me, yet, but I'd like to keep my storyline as independent from the Phase 2 films as possible since, well, obviously the path of my universe is converging more with the comics at this point. I'd hate to discover my take on the whole Extremis thing is not nearly is original as I'd thought, but, whatevs. Whatever happens, happens.

Anyway, we've unfortunately/fortunately reached the part in this story where Natasha is being just as secretive as Loki, so a lot of what they're thinking is left unsaid. I am hoping this is not too confusing, but let me know if it is.

Also, I'm sure ya'll have noticed, but I use Loki's speech patterns to really emphasize how comfortable he is with people, whether he acknowledges it or not. At this point, it seems like Loki is threatening Peter merely for the sake of it, but there seems to be a certain lack of animosity. Is this all part of Loki's plans? Haha. Who knows?

Sorry for any mistakes, by the way! I'll try to scan through this chapter again when I'm not as sick of reading it (although by then it's probably too late and you've already cringed your way through every little mistake, hopefully fondly thinking to yourself "oh, silly Echo")


	17. It Takes One to Start a War

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **A good day to start a war.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen:

_It Takes One to Start a War_

It is only by virtue of Coulson and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s efficiency that 14th Street is cleared of civilians by the time Natasha is sent crashing through a series of abandoned vehicles with the might of a Taxi cab connecting directly into her side. She hits the pavement _once_ and the force of the impact sends her skyward. This time, she ignites the stabilizers on her boots and along her flanks and back so she comes to a full halt mid-air, arms extended outward and palms facing downward to orient her body vertically. On her HUD, the 3D map display shows her that they are rapidly closing in on Union Square. Bringing up an aerial view from the Helicarrier's feed, she sees that the plaza is still flooded with civilian activity.

"Hey, Phil—we're about to have a problem," Natasha says calmly into the team's open feed, lowering herself to the street, arms out and palms down for balance, to see the Melter and Radioactive Man approaching her from either side with matching malevolent grins.

"_I see you. You're going to have to figure something out until my men can clear the area."_

Natasha studies the way Radioactive Man's flesh seems to glow with a faint green luminescence just beneath the surface layer of skin, pulsing along the tracks of his veins and nervous system, made all the brighter as she observes him through her HUD and scans for toxicity levels. He's a burly man, hairless and dressed in military garb made of some sort of special material. Though she finds no insignia to designate him to any particular organization, facial recognition confirms Coulson's analysis and Natasha opens up a new file as she sets her HUD to record.

"_We've got the Black Knight on the run. Spiderman's here," _the Captain grunts into the COM after a moment, checking in.

"_Cap, think you can spare a hand? We don't want to let Stark have all the fun,"_ Coulson says. Natasha is too grateful to stubbornly reply that the aid is unnecessary as Iron Woman's HUD flashes red with alarms, registering an increase in microwave frequencies.

"_Already on my way," _Rogers says.

Natasha swivels her head away from the radioactive gorilla of a man to face the Melter—in the same moment raising her left palm, listens for the soft whine of a repulsor charge—then releases. Her shoulder _jerks_ back against the recoil and she listens for the subsequent explosion as the high density muon beam neutralizes the Melter's damaging Ray.

Her attention immediately shifts back to the Radioactive Man as proximity alarms blare in warning and she watches incredulously as the man's hands dig into the concrete of the sidewalk, fingers sliding into the cement like puddy. He pulls up with great force, extracting the slab from the ground as if dislodging a Lego piece. Automatically, Natasha reacts by targeting his flank, raising her right hand to aim another repulsor blast that catches him low on his gut, disrupting his balance and causing him to flip forward as his legs and pelvis jerk back, granting him with a face full of concrete as he lands flat on the ground.

Natasha looks back to Horgan—sees him snarling and struggling to stand. Natasha aims both palms, level with his head, and sneers, "Alright, you piece of—"

"_Ma'am!"_

JARVIS' cry startles her and Natasha looks up—sees Radioactive Man take a leap in the air, the radiation of his hand hardening as it comes down in a fist. She tries to dodge back but the fist catches her shoulder with so much built up force that it sends her sideways into an abandoned pickup truck.

The truck door curls around her shoulder from the impact and she grunts as she extracts herself—pauses a beat in consideration—then _shoves _her hand through the door so the thin metal is encircling her elbow.

She pivots sharply on her heel and launches the truck at Radioactive Man.

The second the truck is released from her grip, a sharp pain flares from her extended arm, an invisible pulse causing her arm to swing violently, nearly costing her balance. She knows it's the Melter's Ray without JARVIS' confirmation and she allows herself to follow the momentum of the attack, twisting around completely, so she's facing the Melter with her opposite hand already up and prepared to release a Pulse Bolt.

The Melter is flung back from the blast through a window display and Natasha examines the damage to her arm via her HUD—scowls when she notes the molecular disruption in the Exoskeleton and flexes her hand to stretch the tingling flesh of her forearm where the Ray had struck.

This second of distraction is enough that she is unprepared—even with JARVIS blaring a warning—when a solid slab of concrete strikes her upper back and she miraculously remains on her feet.

And then a hand is wrapping around the nape of her neck and _driving her face-first into the asphalt._

* * *

"I don't understand. I thought SHIELD was against your involvement. You said they'd go after Natasha."

Loki speaks as his civilian clothes shift in a mist of bending light to the distinctive Asgardian armor. "She gave them what they wanted. She's working for _them_ now. Banner and I were merely leverage to keep her in check."

His gaze fixes upon the television screen displaying the chaos that is being made of Lower Manhattan and Pepper immediately jumps out of her seat, startling Happy.

"Wait-wait-wait. Hold on. Stop. I _know_ that look." She marches across to Loki, taking his wrist and pulling his attention to her. The frigid expression would be terrifying if any of Pepper's mistrust for the God remained. She levels him with a stern expression—one usually reserved for Natasha. "You were right before. Right now, Natasha has an entire team out there. She has the Fantastic Four and the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D.—she'll be _fine_. But you—if _you_ go—you're still a criminal, according to S.H.I.E.L.D. We can't risk it. _You_ can't risk it. They'll use whatever excuse to put you away, Loki—"

"You think I don't _know_ this?" Loki murmurs darkly.

Silenced, Pepper glances back to the television, concern gnawing at her gut.

The live broadcast maintains a vantage that allows the cameramen to capture as wide of a range of the destruction, though there is an obvious focus on maintaining Captain America and Iron Woman within sight at all times. Pepper flinches, grip tightening around Loki's arm, as she sees Iron Woman flung into the air by a man the local news station is calling 'Radioactive Man'. The force sends Iron Woman crashing through a median and into the middle of a very lively expressway.

She doesn't immediately get up.

Iron Woman's assailants are mere blips, but they are easy to make out even at a distance. Radioactive Man lives up to the name, seeming to absorb the sunlight to feed his own unnatural green glow. Bruno Horgan would be unrecognizable in his modified chest harness if he hadn't already been identified by the reporters as the man responsible for the devastation at the IronWorks Factory.

"They're right by the pier, now. See that?" Happy observes, sitting forward with enthusiasm. "Natasha's leadin' them away from the city!"

Pepper is only watching Natasha—waiting.

Around the prone figure of Iron Woman, vehicles form a loose circle. Civilians quickly abandon their cars when they realize what is going on, however too many remain to ogle the fallen Avenger, endangering their lives in the process.

The camera pans slightly away to locate Captain America and the Fantastic Four, leaving Iron Woman only a corner of the screen and Pepper has to tear her eyes away from the red gleam of Natasha's armor to locate Rogers.

Several streets away, near the schools on 9th Avenue, Mr. Fantastic, the Torch and Spiderman are weaving out of range of the Black Knight's attacks. The two remaining members of the Fantastic Four battle against an unrecognizable and masked man, sheathed almost completely in black—though the details of his attire are unrecognizable. In the stead of a right hand, a long scythe that seems equipped with many of the same capabilities as the Black Knight's lance. The man is quickly given the moniker of 'Reaper' as the broadcast continues.

"Whoa, there. What's—who are _they?_" Happy starts and Pepper's eyes flick to where Captain America is fending off what looks like a small militia of armed and black-garbed soldiers. "They're not S.H.I.E.L.D., right? They _look_ like S.H.I.E.L.D.—"

"They are not," Loki mutters.

His words are confirmed when an unidentified aircraft appears to deliver yet another platoon of unlisted operatives for the Captain to fight. This time, Pepper can see that they are thoroughly covered in ballistic armor, their faces concealed behind what appear to be gas masks.

Her panic doubles and Pepper's grip loosens on Loki as shock begins to numb her. "Wait a minute. What's going on? They're outnumbered. Who _are_ these people?"

Her eyes flit across the screen, counting—_the Melter, one; Radioactive Man, two; Black Knight, three; Reaper, four; and now _these _guys …_

She sees the Black Knight aim his lance at Spiderman—but he is quickly diverted when the Torch knocks into him from the side, sending the horseman flying into what looks like a swarm of awaiting insects which envelop and conform around the Knight like a net. She recognizes what is quickly becoming Ant-Man's signature move but is hardly reassured by his contribution to the team.

Pepper looks back to the expressway to see Iron Woman stand just as several of the enemy operatives flood onto the street. The Melter blasts Iron Woman with a Ray she barely avoids by twisting out of the way—counters immediately with a repulsor that he dodges by diving behind a group of operatives.

Operatives swiftly begin to close in on her; one taking the lead with two batons that seem charged with electricity.

The operative lunges for Iron Woman's back, bringing the batons down on her in a crossing sweep. Iron Woman's thrusters ignite and propel her forward. She twists to face the operative and aims a palm, but another operative has closed in with a front kick that catches Iron Woman's wrist and has her repulsor charge misfiring into the sky.

The operative with the twin batons is still in a forward momentum—brings his batons down to strike Iron Woman's shoulders but they barely seem to nudge her. Her fist surges upwards with a punch to the underside of the operative's jaw that sends him flying, dropping his batons in the process. A third operative dive-rolls to take the batons, comes to a kneel just at Iron Woman's flank and sweeps the batons to the left, catching her by back of her knees. Her knees buckle but she remains standing.

Before she can retaliate, the operative is rolling away and another is leaping in, delivering a fist to the back of her head.

Like a swarm of insects, the unregistered operatives swoop down on Iron Woman in this fashion—diving out of range of her attacks and protecting their comrades from her charges. She is overwhelmed by sheer numbers and Pepper looks to see two operatives aiding the Melter to his feet. Pepper searches for Radioactive Man and spots him swatting around his face as if to repel and irritating fly. Then—his hand shoots out, grasping something. He grins, flings it away, and turns his grin to Iron Woman.

Just as Pepper is preparing to retract her demand that Loki not interfere—senses Loki's agitation beside her—the operatives around Natasha begin to drop to the ground. One by one.

It takes her a moment to realize what is going on.

It's only when she catches the gleam of a long, slender arrow protruding from the back of one of the operative's neck, that she understands.

* * *

"Damn. Stark's not doin' too hot. Why the hell isn't anyone covering her?"

"_Cap was dispatched to provide her with some backup but he was—intercepted."_

"By _who?_" Clint balks as he notches another arrow—takes a breath as his eyes follow the targets swarming about Iron Woman. Releases—

"_He goes by the name 'Grim Reaper'. Intel doesn't have much on him. Only what he _wants_ us to know,"_ Coulson replies.

Another operative drops to the ground—but that only makes room for Radioactive Man to barrel into Iron Woman's side, driving her through several vehicles across the expressway and streets, through the barricade and onto Pier 54. It is fortunately vacant, making it easier for Clint to keep them in his sights.

He frowns as he scans the streets around him, searching. "Where are they, then? And where's the Fantastic Four?"

"_Everyone is preoccupied. If I had the men to spare, Agent Barton, I would have sent someone in. Unfortunately, none of our agents are equipped to go up against Radioactive Man."_

With an exasperated exhale, Clint turns back to Iron Woman to see her struggling to fend off Radioactive Man while avoiding what remains of the enemy operatives still tasked with occupying her attention.

He releases another four arrows and the operatives drop.

Out of the corner of his vision, a sweep of blue and red has him hopeful—but it's only Spiderman, vaulting his way across buildings towards Stark. Clint snorts—is half tempted to shoot off an arrow to startle the kid if only as payback for all the grief he's caused S.H.I.E.L.D. by averting the law and deliberately maintaining his vigilante status. He decides against it with a roll of his eyes and prepares to turn his attention to search for Cap—but then Spiderman is violently flung back in Clint's direction, crushing into the building Clint is perched on and disappearing somewhere within.

"What the—?" Clint looks to see who'd attacked the masked boy—frowns when he doesn't recognize the burly man standing several rooftops away, enormous battleax clutched in both hands.

"Little bird, little bird," a voice sings behind him.

Clint twists sharply, bow up and arrow notched—and it's _Amora_.

He doesn't think—releases an arrow and immediately sets up another two, swallowing a breath and scowling—thinks about how satisfying it would be to have his revenge against the woman who'd very nearly succeeded in knocking Stark off the deep end as he releases another two arrows before the first has even crossed half the distance to the witch.

And then—Amora's hands begin to glow and Clint is reaching back for another arrow when a violent whistling is his only warning and a Quinjet comes streaking down from the sky, _directly_ into the Enchantress, forcing Clint to dive backwards off the roof—

Onto the back of another Quinjet.

He rolls along the back of the Quinjet, slapping out a hand to stop himself from rolling off the side as it slowly begins to navigate away from the destruction.

When he's gathered his bearings, Clint slowly rises to his feet to stare at the devastation the Quinjet had made of the building's rooftop, in no way convinced that that alone would have killed the Enchantress.

"Well," Clint huffs, tucking the unused arrow back into his quiver. "_That_ escalated quickly."

"_You're welcome_," comes Black Widow's sardonic reply.

Clint drops his eyes to the steel of the jet under his feet. "You _know_ these Quinjets cost Stark about twenty million apiece, yeah?"

"_You're. Welcome."_

* * *

Natasha catches the operative's fist, the cold fury of battle making her reckless as she allows Iron Woman's fingers to crunch into the slender bones under his knuckles. The man cries out in agony and she twists his fist away, forcing him to bend his arm into an awkward direction, his elbow digging into his ribs. He falls to a knee and Natasha curls her other hand into a fist, rears her arm back—then swings downward, Iron Woman's knuckles denting the man's helmet and causing it to dislodge completely as the man is sent flying backwards into the broad chest of Radioactive Man. The Chinese native growls, flinging the slackened body away like a rag before charging for her again.

She braces herself for the impact, catches movement on her HUD—operatives gathering at her back on the street, nearly twice as many as before. She can't turn to face them—can't prepare a defense against them when Radioactive Man is very suddenly in her face, paw-like hands on her shoulders and driving her backwards. She could hold her ground, but that would expend energy; instead, she clamps her hands at the crooks of his elbows and gives him momentary control.

Then, as her HUD displays they are mere meters from the barricade the operatives have formed behind her, she throws her shoulders backwards, tucks her knees under her chest and kicks out against Radioactive Man. As her boots connect, she can feel the radioactive flesh harden so that there is very little give despite the force behind her kick. The sudden density gives her leverage and she is ripped from his hold, igniting her thrusters to propel her into the air, arcing in a back-flip over the operatives and landing heavily at their backs.

The operatives turn at once, semi-autos aimed at her.

Her HUD blares and she hears three consecutive _cracks _break the air. Something whistles past her, strikes three of the operatives, and they drop.

She twists around and calmly approaching her is Agent Romanoff in her Black Widow ensemble, pistol aimed with perfect precision. "You make friends everywhere you go, don't you, Stark?"

Widow pulls back on the trigger several more times and she gets another few shots before it seems to occur to the other operatives to respond.

Natasha moves forward swiftly to provide cover for the agent and Widow accepts it only briefly before dropping into a low crouch, her eyes on her targets.

Widow dives out from behind Natasha and the rattling fire of the semi-autos kicks Natasha into action. Twisting, she aims both repulsors at the dozen operatives and with a Pulse Bolt manages to knock most of them back. As a wave of them collapse under the wave, Radioactive Man is moving forward and Natasha sees Widow engaging with another three operatives to the right.

As Radioactive Man closes in on Natasha, she drops to a knee, twisting her torso so her shoulder is level with his midsection, using his momentum to flip him over her head. She immediately follows up the move with a repulsor that catches his back and sends him flying further away, across the expressway.

He remains on his back for a beat and Natasha spares a moment to look towards Widow—sees her and the three operatives moving further and further down the pier, towards the water.

One of the men is behind Widow, attempting to pull her into a chokehold. Widow pivots on a foot as she delivers a sidekick directly into another operative's sternum, sending him stumbling back; she takes the arm of the man reaching for her, tucks it against her side and then drops her weight forward, forcing him to bend as her lower half seems to defy gravity, her legs kicking up and somehow bringing her over his shoulders in a complicated twist that results with the man being flung to the ground viciously.

The two downed operatives don't rise immediately; the third raises his pistol as Widow runs towards him but Natasha blasts the weapon out of his hands and Black Widow leaps into the air, performing an acrobatic twist that suddenly drops her weight down and brings her directly above the third man. She lands heavily with her heel to the back of the man's head, either killing him instantly or merely knocking him out cold. He collapses to the ground and doesn't get back up.

By then, one of the other operatives is on his feet again, drawing a blade when it becomes apparent that it is otherwise impossible to land a shot with the Black Widow. He charges Widow but she anticipates him—leaps back to dodge the first slash of his blade, then immediately counters with a kick. He uses the arm with the blade to block the kick to his head and counters automatically with a kick that misses when Widow drops low to the ground, swiping his feet out from underneath him.

Iron Woman's HUD reminds Natasha that she has her own baddies to deal with and she turns to see Radioactive Man rise. She frowns, aiming her palms at him and releasing consecutive repulsor blasts. The first one strikes close, erupting cement, and the second one sends him spinning backwards further across the expressway and back into the main street. Igniting her thrusters, Natasha follows after him. She pulls back a fist as he gathers himself to his hands and knees and delivers a fierce blow to the back of his head.

But he doesn't react. Instead, reaching upwards with more swiftness than she'd anticipated, he grabs her by her calf and flings her out of the air and into the nearest vehicle.

Natasha groans, body embedded into the side of a city bus. With some difficulty, body sore, she extracts each limb with a grunt until she is standing upright on the street again. Radioactive Man has his hands on another vehicle, preparing to throw—

And then something strikes his back and flings him across the street.

Soundlessly, Spiderman drops down in front of her, suit battered and revealing several bleeding gashes.

"Thought you were with Cap," Natasha grunts, rotating her left shoulder to get rid of the painful tightness. The socket pops and she sighs.

"Man, things are getting really weird," Spiderman says by way of response, shaking his head. He glances back at her. "Like, _really_ wei—"

The next instant happens quicker than she can react—her HUD blaring as it takes in each new danger, but it's all a cacophony of sound to her. In a second, something drops heavily from the sky and Spiderman leaps out of the way as the ground where he had been standing on _explodes_ from the impact of something powerful. By the time she has registered that their new assailant is a large, heavily muscled man bearing a larger battleax, something strikes the ax, causing it to swing to the side.

The projectile boomerangs back just in time for Captain America to catch as he drops down from atop the city bus and joins her side.

"Captain," Natasha greets.

"Stark," Rogers nods.

Black Widow and Spiderman move to join them and Radioactive Man and the ax-guy scowl as they huddle together, preparing for retaliation.

Natasha smirks humorlessly behind Iron Woman's faceplate, raising up both hands to aim her repulsors. "You're out numbered."

"You're all that's left," Rogers adds. "Your buddies are _gone."_

Spiderman shrugs as he aims a wrist in warning, _"_Guess we were too much for them."

Widow mutters, "Stark. We have a problem."

Natasha looks from Radioactive Man to the other guy and frowns. "Really? Because I'm thinking things are finally starting to look up."

"No. It's—"

And then, suddenly—

Amora.

* * *

It is her pride that wins out over her fear of the fallen Prince.

Amora knows well what Loki is capable of and rightfully fears him for what he has become. Even when he still associated himself with Asgard, Loki had been one to huddle close to the darkness. Ever maintaining his undisputed charm, that underlining malevolence was something even the most thick-headed of Asgardians could sense. In the past, Loki had been one for mischief—but now, his fall from Kinghood had awoken something malicious and feral inside of him.

So Amora knew she should fear him—and she _did._

But she was also no child, merely_ playing_ at sorcery. She had been trained by the great Norn Queen _herself_. She refused to be cowed by a _monster_ who thought himself _King_. She is _Asgardian_ and its protection would ever be her highest concern.

However—just because her allegiance to her home could not be shaken, that did not mean she shared the sentiments of the Golden Prince and his _affection_ for this mortal realm. Midgard was a _blemish_—an example of mortals who did not know their place, rejecting the hand of a _Prince_ (Trickster or _not!_) and seeking to _enslave_ the Thunderer to serve their plights. The _audacity!_ They were _all_ blasphemous creatures, but Amora did not suffer from the same afflictions that gripped the Royal Family. Though the All-Father indulged his son's fascination with the mortals, Amora could not abide such defiant creatures to exist.

As she regards the four mortals before her, her face twists with disgust. She recognizes primarily the Soldier and the Lady of Iron for their connection to both the Thunderer and the Trickster, but her attention strays to the Lady of Iron—tries to ignore her fascination for the curiosity that is the living machine that the mortal utilizes as her weapon. Amora has seen all manner of creations at the hands of the Dvergr, but never something as this. It brings to mind the image of the great Asgardian Weapon, the Destroyer.

She imagines that it must be one the reasons Loki has not taken possession of the mortal's mind to bend her to his will: A creator could only be utilized when allowed the pretense of freedom.

Still, Amora feels fury swell up inside of her as she studies the woman—is repulsed by the idea that a _mortal_ should merit the interest of a God of Loki's caliber, or even the _loyalty_ that Thor has shown for this group of garishly dressed fools. In a rage, she flings out both hands, expelling her magic violently in a wave that sends all but the Lady in Iron flying back and out of the way. Responding instinctively to her unspoken desire, Skurge moves forward, raising his battleax high above his head. Amora sees the mortal attempt to defender herself, directing a palm towards Scurge—only to discover that her suit has been disabled, Amora's magic weaved precariously throughout the circuitry, neutralizing the electrical currents the machine relies upon for support.

"Oh—you _bitch,"_ she hears the mortal grunt—just a second before Scurge's ax comes down upon her head for a fatal blow.

And misses.

For a second, Amora is stunned as she watches the blade ghost through the mortal, leaving her completely unscathed. Scurge stumbles—and then fumbles the air when he realizes that his weapon has begun to dematerialize.

Ice fills her belly and Amora understands—_the game is over_.

Loki materializes directly in front of her, blocking her view of the mortal.

Expressionless, Amora looks up to meet his gaze—and then fear at last overpowers her pride as she allows her magic to whisk her far away from the murder in the Jotun's eyes.

_This is not over._

* * *

Amora is gone, taking with her Radioactive Man and the ax-wielder. As Fury arrives, Rogers and Barton describe how the Melter, Grim Reaper and the Black Knight had similarly disappeared just when it seemed the Avengers had them on the run. The Fantastic Four are gone before Fury can corner them into a debriefing and nobody comments on the fact that if it weren't for Loki, there was no telling what Amora could have rained down on them.

Natasha surveys the destruction of the street as far down as her HUD will display, standing quietly apart from everybody else. There's a tickle of indignant fury somewhere in the back of her mind at the prospect of not being able to properly repay Amora and the Melter for what they'd done to her, but for the most part she is filled with the sort of calm she associates with unraveling the mystery of a new Stark design. Everything she creates is a puzzle and a puzzle can only be understood in the process of its solution. Everything has a function and even the most complicated of machinery can be unraveled by its smallest of components.

This is a machine.

_This_—whatever '_this'_ is—it is a _machine. _

And Amora and the Melter and Black Knight and Radioactive Man, they were all just _parts _of a whole. There was no theatrics in all of this—it was systematic. Militaristic. There was a purpose to _all_ of this.

Natasha understands machines—because _complex_ and as _impossible_ as they might seem, machines are _made_ and that means they can be _broken. _

"Where's Banner?" Fury's voice startles her out of her thoughts. She doesn't think to drop her faceplate and doesn't notice the strange detachment that has fallen over her with the Iron Woman as her shield from the prying eyes of the Director.

"What? You don't _know?_" Natasha intones with a snort, glancing behind him to see he is accompanied by Ant-Man and the Wasp, back to their regular proportions.

Fury ignores her tone and says, "I want the three of you in my office as soon as he returns. Have Richards join you."

He strides away without another word to join Coulson at an awaiting SUV.

"We tried to get to you but it was like they were determined to isolate you and the Cap," Pym says as he removes his Ant-Man helmet.

Natasha frowns, intrigued by this. "Interesting."

"Yeah," Pym mutters, scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair. "We sent Spiderman ahead to try and get to you and Cap—see if he could at least clear the path between you guys even if we couldn't get to you ourselves. It was pretty insane. Fortunately, Hawkeye and Black Widow showed up. And another woman—she was S.H.I.E.L.D. but she was definitely a super. She wiped the _floor_ with those other agents."

"Hm." She looks past him to see a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents escorting several captured enemy operatives into security vehicles. "Do we know who we're dealing with? Those guys were definitely plain-old-_human._ No super powers, 'far as I could tell."

"You're right," Pym says, glancing back to gesture at the reinforced transport vehicles. "We've got some in custody, now—but, who knows?"

"Alright," Natasha grunts, looking away from the prisoners and agents to find Loki still standing off to the side with Spiderman. "Fury wants a meeting. I'll call Reed. We can meet tomorrow at noon."

"He wants Banner—"

"He's not going to get Banner. Bruce is getting some much needed rest away from this mess. I'm not about to call him back just so Fury can put him to work."

Pym looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it and nods. She hears his exasperated sigh as she steps away to head towards Loki and Spiderman. Very animatedly, Spiderman seems to be engrossed in whatever he is saying to Loki, waving his arms about, squatting and gesturing wildly. As she approaches, she sees Captain America walking towards her from the opposite direction, shield hoisted to his back and mask still in place. They arrive at the same moment next to Spiderman and Loki and before Natasha can think to say anything, Spiderman is turning to Cap and feigning punches as he exclaims: "Man, we did pretty good out there, huh, Cappy? I mean—I wasn't half bad, was I?"

Rogers smiles, though the expression is strained—clearly still in a mindset better suited to battle. "Yeah. We did alright, kid."

"Thanks for the help," Natasha says to Loki as she drops her faceplate.

Loki's scowl moves from Spiderman to her, relaxing only a fraction. "Are you being sarcastic?"

She snorts, shrugging. "Usually. But not in this case. We needed the help."

Rogers hesitates with a look towards Loki before clearing his throat and saying to her, "You and I will need to confer in the future."

"Agreed," Natasha snorts, acutely aware of Loki and Spiderman's silence. "This was terrible. It may have been presumptuous to assume we could just draft together a bunch of names a call it a team."

"It just needs a little refining," Rogers says, his eyes careful not to stray back to the Trickster. "The others will acclimate eventually."

"Not soon enough," Natasha mutters. She looks to Loki with a pointed silence and he seems to understand her silent request because he nods and disappears without saying a word.

"Rude," Spiderman huffs. "Didn't even say _bye."_

Natasha bites back a smile, grimacing as she says, "I'm gunna head off. I think I might have a concussion."

Relaxing, Rogers laughs, "Should you be operating—ah—heavy machinery, then?"

"I'll put her on autopilot," Natasha retorts with a roll of her eyes. "See you two around."

As her thrusters ignite, she doesn't hear the Captains parting words.

* * *

"So, we've got a problem," Clint sighs as he gratefully accepts the handful of arrows Nat had plucked from the bodies of several enemy operatives on her way over to him.

"Hm."

Still grim-faced from battle and looking more like the notorious Black Widow than his long-term comrade-in-arms, Clint is careful not to pry despite his concern. Nat's expression belays dark thoughts but Clint knows that he won't be privy to them until after they've cleared the scene and returned to headquarters.

"The Director thinks someone's _collecting_ people to create these supers," Clint goes on as he swings off his quiver to deposit it into the back of the SUV, next to his bow. He's thinking out loud more than he's looking for any sort of response and while he knows Nat is listening, she doesn't look away from whatever distant spec of space seems to have captured her attention. "What _I'm_ wondering is—if someone _is_ collecting people to dose them with … whatever—how has no one _reported_ it? People going missing? That usually brings up a lot of red flags. But there's _nothing._ Nada, man. Just a bunch of folks poppin' out've the woodwork with brand-spankin' new powers. It's too clean, you know? _And_, then there's—"

"And, there's Amora," Nat says as she slams the doors shut and they round the SUV.

Clint slips into the passenger's side as Nat takes the wheel. He looks to her meaningfully and says in agreement, "And there's Amora."

"You think Loki is behind this," Nat states, matter-of-factly.

"I think he might _know_ something, is all," Clint corrects, just to be diplomatic, because his personal opinion is that, _yes_, Loki is involved—but that belief isn't cemented on anything beyond the memory of Loki's twisted presence in his mind, molding him into the Trickster's own personal weapon.

"Will you talk to Stark?"

Clint snorts, "You kidding? I'm still not convinced she's all _there_, you know? _Amora's_ back. What's to stop her from screwin' with Stark all over again? I've seen _drugs_ that can wipe you out—put you in total black out, throughout which you are completely susceptible to suggestion. Loki's magic—_Amora_'s magic—it's like that. They make it so you're just a shell. An empty shell. And they fill you up—they fill you up with all of their schemes and influence and there's just—"

"That was the Tesseract."

"That was _Loki._"

"Loki's magic and Amora's seem to be different," Nat says, watching the road—and Clint knows she's just playing devil's advocate but it's still frustrating to have to argue the point that Loki is no more trustworthy than Amora. "Amora needed Morgan Stark to get to his cousin."

Clint huffs. "Whatever. Magic's magic. But we can't afford Stark getting her noodles scrambled again. The Iron Woman armor system is _already_ notoriously error-prone. She might not consider it a 'weapon'—which is a _joke_—but at least a frickin' _laptop_ never tried to blast my face off with a repulsor."

"Is that not your _thing_, now? I thought you _enjoyed_ Transformers?"

"Ha-ha. I'm talking about _real life_, here."

"Because 'real life' now includes aliens, monsters and people with super powers, but a potentially-sentient machine posing as a suit of armor is a little too much for you?" Nat retorts with her usual dryness.

"Make fun all you want," Clint scowls, crossing his arms. "But I still think the Iron Woman is about the most dangerous thing we've ever faced. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't have been better for everyone if Natasha Stark had just gotten into World of Warcraft or something. Stark's always had a control problem. When she's not abusing it, she's losing it."

"Rogers seems to trust her," Nat hums, noncommittal.

"Rogers' been hit in the head a lot."

He's not trying to paint Stark as the bad guy, here, but he's trying to be _logical._ The obvious fact that Stark had only good intentions at heart, despite her prickly way of going about things, did not mean Clint thought she wasn't just as capable of as much damage as someone like Loki. People were capable of a lot because they were _driven_ to do it—or because they were afraid _not_ to do it. They were capable of all manner of terrible things because they were paid to do it, or because they thought they knew what was _best_—that their actions were somehow _justified_.

Clint didn't actually think Stark wasn't in full possession of her faculties, but he also wasn't convinced that there wasn't more between Loki and Stark than a simple arrangement of convenience. Psychopath Gods didn't just set aside their plots for world conquest because they had a _change of heart._ If _Clint_ could understand that, then _Stark_ of course did—so something was _up._ Obviously.

Clint had felt Loki's hunger—so dark and deep—to be convinced that the man could just turn away from such a path in a matter of months.

* * *

The penthouse, with its tall windows and open spaces, suddenly feels too exposed—too vulnerable. Natasha tries to stamp down on the squirming of unease in her belly but the feeling does not go away. She tries to focus on Peter, pacing back and forth in concern, but his anxiety only doubles hers.

A sharp pain along her forearm is the only thing that distracts her long enough to almost forget about the exposed threat of a rising super villain organization.

"Ow," Natasha grumbles halfheartedly.

Pepper ignores her. "Stop being a baby—"

"Ow—_ouch!"_ Natasha cries out, jumping in her seat in surprise.

"Hush."

"Pepper! That—_ow!"_

Natasha flinches and tries to tug her arm away as Pepper scrubs the kitchen towel over the flesh that had blistered and yellowed from the Melter's Ray. Perfectly nonchalant, Pepper holds her in place by the wrist and continues to scrape away at the damaged layer of skin with the cloth. On Natasha's other side, Happy offers her a sympathetic grimace as he carefully dabs at her busted lip and the gash at the bridge of her nose. Natasha inhales sharply as Pepper discards the towel and sets to dabbing at her arm with cotton soaked in alcohol.

This is how Loki finds them when he appears in full Asgardian regalia.

Peter yelps a startled, "Whoa!" and Happy rises to usher the boy out of the room automatically.

Loki watches until he's gone before Pepper moves aside and Loki reaches out to take Natasha's wrist. Almost immediately, Natasha feels the cool touch of his magic sooth over muscles and joints and stitch together flesh. She relaxes, even as it becomes apparent to her that Loki and Pepper have no intention of doing the same.

"What's the matter, sourpatch?" Natasha smirks up Loki, receiving a flat stare in return.

"Take this seriously, Natasha," Pepper sighs, sitting back heavily and putting both hands over her mouth as if she were still struggling to regain calm. She looks thoughtful, though, more than frightened. Natasha appreciates this for a moment before nodding.

"Sorry," Natasha sighs, switching off her default humor as her brow furrows in thought. She looks up to find Loki watching her. "I'd ask what the hell _Amora_ was doing here, but I take it you either don't know or won't tell. So, instead—any thoughts on the fact that these psychopaths have formed some sort of _anti-_Avengers team?"

Pepper's breath hitches as, presumably, her own fears are given voice. Loki crosses his arms and replies, "You've speculated this has been long in the works, haven't you? You've always felt there was something more going on in respect to the meta-human population."

"You have?" Pepper drops her hands to her lap and sits forward.

"I've had Loki follow up on super activity. We suspected Osborn for a while, just for the fact that he's the only one who'd have the technology and the funding. Not to mention the Lizard used to be one of his employees and has somehow managed to escape S.H.I.E.L.D. custody." Natasha frowns up at Loki. "You still haven't found him?"

"Osborn is either innocent or more intelligent than I've given him credit for."

"You mean _paranoid._"

"So if it's not Osborn, who _is_ it?" Pepper asks.

"We don't know that it _isn't_, but we don't have proof that it _is."_ Natasha scrubs at her hair, still sweaty from earlier. "The sun doesn't just rise one day and suddenly start blasting people with radiation to give them super powers. Someone is behind this. Loki's found evidence that there are connections between too many of these criminals to be coincidence. Not only that, but a lot of these guys—they're bottom of the barrel. They don't have the brains to commit some of the crimes or build some of the tech these guys are carrying. Bruno Horgan lost his fortune and he's been in jail for a good couple of months—so where the hell did he get his new gear?"

"Someone is _sponsoring _criminals?" Pepper gapes.

"Seems like. Our very own Moriarty, keeping to the shadows and running things from behind. But I'll find him. It's only a matter of time." Natasha stands, stretching her back and testing her shoulder joints for aches. With a grunt, she adds, "I just thought I'd have a little more time to _prepare."_

Loki scowls at her, "It is because you '_play by the rules_'."

"As opposed to _what?"_ Pepper snaps, tension dissolving her usual composure.

Loki's eyes shift to her. "It is much easier to destroy than it is to create." He frowns at Natasha. "You want to protect everyone but you know that you cannot and with that knowledge, you have already ceded victory."

Natasha averts her eyes with a frown, not willing to give anything away. "I'm going to have to speak with Fury. We need numbers and the Avengers are little better than a boy-band at an X-Factor competition scrambling to get their shit together."

"You think it's Amora?" Pepper stands, scowling. "You think she's the one behind this?"

Loki shakes his head. "Amora is no mastermind."

"But she's got magic," Natasha adds. "She's got means to create incentive to bring together a group of criminals to serve whatever purpose our Moriarty has planned."

Pepper seems to consider this.

Natasha's phone begins to vibrate on the bar and she sighs as she moves away to retrieve it. It's Peter, so she answers, "What's wrong?"

"_Ah—it's Cap. I just ran into him—he's right outside—jeez—you should really come down—God …"_

Natasha doesn't even put down the phone before she is darting for the elevator and punching the button for the lobby. She hears Pepper calling after her in concern and Loki materializes half a second later beside her.

Natasha takes his arm sharply and snaps, "Outside! Now!"

Loki acts immediately and the jolt in her stomach from the sudden dematerialization and reconstruction in a different location is _nothing_ to the nausea that hits her like a wave when she spots Happy and Peter crouched over Rogers' body where it's slumped against the side of the company car.

At first, the only thing Natasha sees is the _blood._

Her hand tightens around Loki's arm for a second as she fights a wave of sickness. Then, when she hears Happy and Peter's low murmurs, assuring Rogers' that everything will be fine, she snaps out of it and rushes forward. She drops to her knees in front of Rogers, hands hovering uselessly over the man. He's still in full gear, though absent his shield, but he looks worse than he could have possibly looked after the earlier battle.

"W-what—what happened?" Natasha gasps, having trouble digesting what her eyes were seeing. She can't seem to look him in the eye, her attention grasped by the very fatal amount of blood pooling under the Cap's body. When Roger's doesn't answer, she looks to Happy and snaps, "What the hell _happened?!"_

Happy shakes his head, reaching out to set a hand on her shoulder. He keeps his calm in the face of her distress. "He said someone attacked him claiming to be the _real_ Captain America. Said he looked just like him and everythin'. Took his _shield_, too."

"Someone posing as the Cap would be able to …" Peter takes a shaky breath as he looks away from Rogers, tears in his eyes. "You've gotta warn someone."

Something cold washes over Natasha and she stands.

"I'm on it."

* * *

There was no rest. Only hours after facing the concentrated efforts of some of the most powerful supers, Steve found himself already tracking and putting down other criminals who'd thought to use the commotion from the battle against Amora and her group of super villains as a distraction for the Avengers. The NYPD had been having a hell of a time trying to contain these people while the S.H.E.L.D. and the Avengers were occupied. Exhausted and Super Soldier Serum still working to heal him from the various wounds sustained during the earlier fight, Steve was not about to ignore the lawmen doing their best against unnaturally over-powered foes.

He doesn't take the name or offer his usual reprisal to the brightly clothed criminal as he cuffs him and passes him over to the authorities. He phones in to S.H.I.E.L.D. to alert them that the authorities would be delivering another criminal to deport to Ryker's, but he's tired and his mind is still reeling from all that had transpired today.

So he's not expecting it when Spiderman _drops_ out of the sky, heels connecting with his chest and knocking him to the ground.

Steve hits the pavement with a grunt, shield clanging loudly and resonating from the impact. Around him, the few people who had decided to brave the streets despite what had happened to Lower Manhattan cry out and run, terrified and angry after all they had seen.

"Spiderman, what—"

Steve instinctively rolls to his back, presenting his shield, when he hears a familiar _whine_ and something flash from high in the sky.

The blast strikes his back and the pavement begins to crumble beneath him, caving in from the force and his weight.

He hears another whine and this time he realizes that even if he doesn't understand what is going on, he'd rather not get killed because of his ignorance. He listens for the release of another repulsor and rolls to the right immediately. The blast propels him further and he uses the momentum to twist in the air so he's facing both his assailants, landing on his knee and drawing his shield into his hand.

Iron Woman and Spiderman twist to face him and Steve crouches lower, defensive and reluctant to strike. When Iron Woman raises a palm to blast him again Steve panics, reaching up to tear off his mask and scream, "_Stark!_ What the hell are you doing? What the hell is the _matter_ with you?!"

Iron Woman hesitates, palm dropping a fraction, and the mechanical voice responds, "You—"

Spiderman moves forward, shooting out twin streams of webbing that plant themselves on the building behind Steve and add to the boy's momentum as he drives forward with both feet. Steve rolls away and Iron Woman charges forward with a punch, forgetting her indecision. Her fits connects with Steve's cheek and he feels the flesh split under the metal, a burst of pain blinding his vision with white—but it clears before Iron Woman strikes out with a second fist and this time he blocks it with his shield, unbalancing her. As she staggers back, Steve sees a flash of red and blue above him and lifts the shield just as Spiderman descends with a sidekick aimed for his head. The kick blocked, Spiderman flips away before Steve can retaliate and Iron Woman moves forward with another punch.

Her movements and attacks are vicious, fueled by emotion and lacking the precision Steve usually associates with Iron Woman. Spiderman, similarly, seems intent to inflict the maximum amount of damage. When Spiderman comes at him from behind, Steve twists to block him with his shield—but Iron Woman sees that as an opening and Steve barely manages to block her punch, retaliating without thinking with a kick that connects with her armored chest. Shoving against his shield to push Spiderman back, Steve swings it around to knock it into the side of Iron Woman's face.

Then, as Spiderman leaps for him again, a thick stream of webbing latches to his back and he's violently thrown aside.

"You guys—stop_!_ Iron Woman! _Stop!_ You've got the wrong guy!"

Steve looks up and sees—

"Spiderman?" Iron Woman balks, stumbling away from Steve in surprise. She lowers her hand and Steve is grateful to see the repulsor charge disintegrate.

_Another_ Spiderman sits perched on the lamppost above.

"Spiderman, what—"

Spiderman shifts his position on the lamppost and affects his usual playful tone as he crosses his arms and replies, "I'm here cuz I heard Captain America and Iron Woman were beating the _crap_ out of each other in Midtown—"

Not in the mood to be amused, Iron Woman drops her faceplate and scowls, "This guy is an _imposter_—"

"What?" Steve balks when he realizes Stark is referring to him. "_You_ attacked _me!"_

"There's an imposter, Ms. Stark," the second Spiderman replies calmly. "But it isn't the Cap. It was the Chameleon. I've faced him before."

Stark swivels to face Steve, face unnaturally pale. "That wasn't you?"

Steve scowls, straightening and lowering his shield when it becomes unlikely that he'll be attacked again. "_Who_ wasn't me?"

"Oh! Sunnuva—" Spiderman starts, dropping to the street. "—mother _hugger!_ That jerk-face took off! _Man!"_

The first Spiderman is gone, but Steve is too stunned to even think about going after him.

"That's okay! It's okay! I've got him! I'll go after him!" Spiderman calls as he takes to the nearest building in pursuit of his double.

"Is this a joke?" Stark exhales, turning her eyes to the sky in exasperation. "Like we haven't dealt with _enough_ shit today? What the _hell?"_

Confused and shocked but relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of Iron Woman and Spiderman's hostilities, Steve chuckles as he rubs a rough hand over his sweaty face. "Well, partner—just be glad it all came out in the wash. No hard feelings."

Stark huffs a laugh but she sounds incredulous and on the verge of hysteria as she gapes up at the sky like she can see something he can't.

"God, Steve—I'm sorry. This is so fucked up. I'm _sorry."_

* * *

**End Notes: **Sorry for the delay. I don't even _know_ what happened. Ironically, it took watching Man of Steel to remember that I actually hadn't submitted this chapter.

Sorry again for grammar and spelling mistakes. It's been a while since I proofed this and I never really catch them all, anyway.


	18. High Upon That Tower

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **A game and a choice.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen:

_High Upon That Tower (Don't Look Down)_

Steve would be surprised that he is able to coerce Stark to return with him to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters for a debriefing but his ears are still ringing with "_Steve"_ and the realization that it is the first time Stark has ever referred to him as such. 'Rogers' forever carried the title of Captain, synonymous with a legend he did not feel a part of because it had been built on a foundation of almost mythologized history. For Stark to regard him as anything more than that was such a foreign concept that it left him numbed with surprise.

It also leaves a nostalgic pit in his gut where the absence of Howard and Peggy and his Howling Commandos are still keenly felt.

Stark is still in full Iron Woman ensemble when they arrive at the base, her footsteps heavy as they make their way down the corridors and past several agents. Headquarters is abuzz with activity as a result of the mess the Black Knight and his team of super-powered criminals had made of lower Manhattan so Steve feels like they're more in the way than anything else as they try to weave a path through the many agents. As they wearily make their way to Coulson's office, Stark gets a call from Spiderman that she directs to her suit's helmet and she switches the audio on the suit outward for his benefit.

"_Found the Chameleon," _Spiderman reports.

"Did he give you any trouble," Steve asks.

"_Ah—no. One of—uh—a friend of Ms. Stark's kinda … lent a hand. The Chameleon was practically gift-wrapped for me."_

Steve frowns, glancing curiously to Stark. Faceplate down, he is able to see her expression crumple in confusion as she mouths to herself, '_friend?'_. It seems to take her a moment to understand before she huffs, smiling, "Oh."

"Loki?" Steve murmurs quietly, the Asgardian the first person to come to mind that Stark might—bafflingly—consider a friend. He's careful not to speak loudly on the chance that any S.H.I.E.L.D. operative might overhear. He's still not sure what the Director will say about Loki's presence on the battlefield earlier.

Stark rolls her eyes. "Probably."

"_I'll just leave him same place as usual, yeah?"_

"What—strung up outside like a piñata?" Stark snorts.

Spiderman laughs. "_Whatever gets the job done, right?"_

"Sure. See you around, kid. Stay outta trouble," Stark grunts and the line cuts out after Spiderman bids his goodbye.

Coulson's office is empty when they enter, though the opened door would be sure to trigger a notice in the man's phone. Steve anticipates only a half hour wait, at most, as he takes a seat in front of the desk, watching as Stark makes a B-line for a platter of bagels on the coffee table left over from an earlier meeting.

"Think fast, Cap," Stark barks and Steve blinks, hand shooting out instinctively to catch the projectile aimed at his head.

Rather than offer his gratitude, he frowns at the bagel in his hands, then at the platter. "There's no—?"

"Sesame seed? No, I checked," Stark says, freezing her suit and releasing the locking mechanisms down the reverse side, exposing her back and the backs of her arms and legs. She steps backwards, disentangling herself from the armor. Then, once freed, she reaches around the front to pluck her bagel from Iron Woman's hand.

"That's fine," Steve replies, taking a bite of his plain bagel as Stark makes her way to the vacant seat next to him. It takes a second for him to realize, "Wait—how—?"

"Did I know?" Stark's grin is dimmer than usual, tired, as she plops herself down on the chair. "Because I know everything. I can't help it."

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes. "You're so full of it."

Her grin flickers wider for a second. "I know."

When Coulson arrives, sooner than predicted, he blinks in surprise when he sees Stark present. "I wasn't expecting you."

Stark shrugs, biting down and muttering around the bagel, "Rogers asked nicely."

Studying her skeptically, Coulson rounds his desk and takes a seat. He seems to decide against pursuing his curiosity in favor of getting straight to business. His eyes flick to Steve. "You guys can't seem to catch a break. I apologize we couldn't get a team down to you guys sooner. We were still trying to clean up the mess from this morning. What happened?"

"The Chameleon," Stark says.

"Hm," Coulson nods. "He's one of Spiderman's."

"Spiderman's?" Steve frowns.

"He impersonated Spiderman sometime back. The real Spiderman caught him and helped the NYPD arrest him."

"This wasn't just an _impersonation_," Stark argues.

Coulson frowns and Steve elaborates, "He used Spiderman's web to get around."

"The fluid Spiderman uses for his web-shooters is a shear-thinning liquid based on an OsCorp design—"

"Wait. You _know_ this?" Coulson interrupts, startled.

As if annoyed, Stark rolls her eyes. "I've had occasion to study them, yes. They've got a very particular design, modified from the original OsTech version. Quite ingenuously so. Unless the Chameleon somehow got his hands on Spiderman's shooters, the only other explanation would be that he somehow got his hands on Osborn's _original_ material."

Coulson takes this in, brows furrowed heavily as he turns to his computer to begin registering a report.

"Still doesn't explain why he would go out of his way to target myself and the Cap," Stark adds.

"Explain," Coulson mutters, distracted.

"I was at Stark Tower when Cap—or the Chameleon, I guess?—when he showed up, all beaten and bloody. He told me there was some imposter of Cap going around so I went out after him."

"Next thing I know," Steve continues, "Spiderman is falling out of the skies and attacking me."

"And that's the first thing I see when I show up. Spiderman and Cap duking it out. Immediately, I just assumed—"

"That _I_ was the imposter, when in reality, the Chameleon had already had enough time to switch to his Spiderman disguise, it seems, and complete the deception by making it appear to Stark that the imposter was accosting fellow heroes."

Pausing, Coulson frowns at Stark. "You left the Chameleon unattended?"

"I didn't _know_ he was the Chameleon. I thought _he_ was _Rogers_ and Rogers was—" Stark groans in exasperation, throwing her head back. "It was all just very confusing, okay?"

"So you left what you believed to be and injured 'Rogers' unattended?" Coulson amends, tone not disapproving, simply assessing.

"I left him with—" With a start, Stark stands suddenly as she realizes, "I left him with Happy and Peter! Shit! Bastard better not have done anything!"

Fishing her phone, Stark stalks away to check in with her employee and Coulson turns his questions to Steve. "So, how did you discover Spiderman to be the imposter?"

"The real Spiderman showed up," Steve replies. "The Chameleon took off almost right away, but Spiderman followed him."

Coulson gets a constipated look on his face as he rolls his chair back against the window behind him and twists to peek through the blinds. "Great."

When Stark returns, she doesn't take a seat and Rogers studies her mildly annoyed scowl with concern. Carefully, he asks, "All good?"

"Probably. Happy's a little knocked up. Pete too, but he was able to get Pepper and Loki to help him."

"Does your assistant _know_ about Loki?" Coulson asks, eyes narrowed accusingly.

"It's just Mr. Olson to Pete. Relax," Stark replies with a roll of her eyes.

Steve studies her expression for a little longer than necessary but can find no tell to reveal she might be lying.

"I'm gunna go check on Happy, though. We good here?" Stark sighs, surprisingly cooperative.

"For now. Thank you, Stark. Your input was appreciated," Coulson replies with a polite smile. Stark returns it without her usual flippant smile and retrieves her armor before leaving. Coulson looks to Steve, then, expression unreadable. "I know you two don't get along, but I appreciate what you're doing."

Steve frowns, confused. "What am I doing?"

"The stress—of everything? Stark has been a business woman all her life and Iron Woman for only a fraction of that time. Still, she's never dealt with anything like this and there are many who believe she is not psychologically equipped to handle the stresses that come with the job," Coulson says and Steve automatically knows he's referring to Agent Hill. "Whether intentional or not, I think your support means more to her than either of you realize."

"We're not exactly friends," Steve adds, surprised by the flicker of regret that accompanies the statement.

Coulson only smiles and shrugs and when he returns to his computer, Steve gets the feeling that he is being dismissed.

* * *

"Happy?" Natasha asks immediately upon returning to the Tower. Neither Pepper nor Happy are anywhere to be found and she frowns when she's only greeted as Loki materializes at her side. "How's Hap? Where is he?"

"He's fine. He took a minor blow to the head, but he was fine," Loki explains quietly as he falls into step beside her. She heads straight for her Tower monitoring console, scowl forming. Loki continues, "He wouldn't allow me to heal him, so I'd say there is nothing to fear. Besides which, he is with Pepper. There is no safer place."

Natasha would normally smile at the note of endearment; instead, she hums in acknowledgment as she pauses over the monitoring console to look up at him. "Thanks. For Hap. And for helping out Spiderman."

Loki bends forward for a kiss, murmuring against her mouth, "You gratitude is unnecessary." With a snort, he adds, quirking a brow and looking aside contemplatively, "The man was hardly a match for even Spiderman."

Natasha nods absently, losing herself to thoughts. She barely reacts when Loki lays a hand over her cheek and she feels the frosty chill of his magic stitch across the bruises she'd acquired from her confrontation with Rogers.

Remembering suddenly, Natasha jerks her head back as she claps a hand to his chest. "Fuck! Right! He was using OsTech! Remember?"

He doesn't move away, still hovering within her bubble of personal space. He nods. "You've suspected Osborn and his involvement with the meta humans."

She scowls, "I thought Osborn might have—Goddamn, I _knew_ Osborn was up to something and I'll bet my _life's inheritance_ he's got his finger firmly wedged up the Chameleon's ass." Loki makes a face of disgust and pulls back in response to her crude analogy and she lightly smacks his cheek to rid him of the expression. "No, but seriously. Osborn is up to something. He's got the money. The _tech_."

"I'll look into it," Loki frowns. "You can't move against him without confirmation."

She hesitates when another thought occurs to her, eyes flickering over his expression, then away. "There's also—"

"Amora," Loki says immediately, as if reading her thoughts. She nods. "I will determine her connection to Osborn, as well, if there is any to be found."

* * *

"What are you going to do with this?" Pym asks, baffled as he scans through her computer, reading through her code with only recently acquired ease.

"Do with what?" Natasha mutters without looking up from where she's barricaded by a number of her portable holo-monitors.

"You've got a couple lines here in your code you've commented out. What are they for?"

She spares half a second to glance over at the other scientist and sees him studying her laptop with interest. "Oh. That. Not sure yet. I'm still trying to figure out a use for them."

"Looks interesting," he hums without a hint of sarcasm.

Natasha turns back to her work. "You can use it, if you'd like. For Ultron. It might help him analyze data and 'learn' faster."

Surprised, Pym looks up. "You don't mind?"

She snorts. "I don't really care, to be honest."

Vaguely, she acknowledges his gratitude with a nod before he wanders back to his station. She moves from her station to the large gateway of the Negative Zone and plants herself on the floor, legs crossed as she works to rewire some of the gate's hardware around a new installation.

"So—I've got a question." The voice comes as a surprise. More so when Natasha looks up to see Pym's girlfriend hovering over her awkwardly, fidgeting with her iPhone. When she notices Natasha's eyes on the device, she hurriedly stuffs it into her overlarge purse with a wince and Natasha looks away with a smirk.

"I'm sure you _do_." Natasha mutters, grimacing as she lays the flat end of her tool against the floor and sees it spark.

"Sorry—it's just that Hank doesn't really like it when I bug him while he's working and—"

Natasha snorts, eyes never leaving the delicate circuitry of the gate. "Sweetie, this might move along a little faster if you get to a _point_ instead of boring me with the details of your fascinating relationship with Doctor Pym."

"Right, right." To her credit, Jan doesn't seem in the least put out by Natasha's terse attitude. "Well—it's about the … black hole _thing_. I was just curious—like, I _sort've_ understand what it is, but—and this is probably a stupid question and I'm sorry if I'm bugging you—but … a black hole is like this … _thing_. In space. And it sucks up everything—right? Like—_stuff._"

Natasha is half listening. "Matter. Yes. What about it?"

"Well, when Hank was explaining it—he said black holes swallow up light, as well."

"Yes."

"Okay—and here's my stupid question, I guess—but, like, how does _light_ get absorbed? It's—_light_. It's not, like, a _thing_. It's not _physical_, right? Like—_matter?_"

Thinking this topic was probably the last thing she'd imagine discussing with the other socialite, Natasha straightens and looks to her as if for the first time. "Huh. Interesting."

Jan grimaces apologetically. "Stupid question?"

"Ah. No," Natasha shrugs, turning back to the circuitry. "Why do you want to know this?"

"I just want to understand. I want to be useful. My—Wasp Stings. They're bioelectric, and—"

"Bioelectricity is not exactly the same as light." Natasha flashes her a quick look and smirk. "Anyway, are you expecting having to use your Stings inside the Negative Zone?"

Jan shakes her head quickly, holding up her hands, "No. No. _Hopefully_ not. I was just curious. You know—like, it was just a thought that occurred to me, but it seemed like such a dumb thing to bring up and you can't really _google_ this sort of thing, so …" Jan sighs, nose crinkling as she bows her head. "Yeah. Okay, so just forget I said anything."

Natasha sits back, hands pausing as she studies the younger woman. Then, after a moment of consideration, Natasha says, "Light is just another name for electromagnetic radiation, which is the transmission of energy. It consists of photons, which have _zero_ mass. _Matter, _on the other hand,is traditionally regarded as anything with _rest _mass."

Surprised, Natasha can't ignore the hopeful look that flares up on the girl's face and it occurs to her that in all this time Pym has been working with Reed and herself, Jan had always been at his side, dutifully silent whenever Pym was particularly engrossed with his work. She'd never thought that the girl might have wanted to serve a purpose as anything other than a pretty little decoration at Pym's desk. Natasha doesn't know what to do with this discovery and she studies the woman with interest.

Jan, encouraged by Natasha's acknowledgment, nods and says, "Okay, but even if photons have 'zero' mass, how does that make them any 'less' matter than electrons or protons? I mean—it still has a _mass_, right? Even if it's 'zero'?"

"Relativistic mass, yes. But it's still energy, not matter."

"But isn't matter made up of localized energy?" Jan seems to notice Natasha's look of surprise because she flushes and leans in to murmur, "I try to pay attention to Hank's work. It's hard to keep up with him, you know? But—my _dad_ was a scientist and … " She trails off with a shrug.

Natasha shakes her head , snorting. "Yes. You're right. Matter contains energy—but that doesn't make it energy. A sponge can contain water, but that doesn't make the _sponge_ water. You're asserting that matter is localized energy, therefore light _is _matter. But just because matter is localized energy does not make it energy. Not the least reason of which is because light is _not_ localized; it moves at 'c'. If it didn't, it wouldn't be light. Higher energy gives higher momentum, which gives _lower_ wavelength—thus, a high energy photon is better localized in space, _behaving_ more like a particle. In relation to your initial point—regarding the singularity at the heart of the Negative Zone—"

"The black hole, right?"

"Yes. Black holes are essentially a deformation of spacetime, which—in theory—is caused by a sufficiently compact mass. While photons normally travel at the speed of light, they begin to lose energy when traveling out of a gravitational field. The stronger the gravitational field, the more energy the photons lose. Light, then, in the vicinity of such strong gravitational fields would cause strange distortions."

"I thought nothing was faster than light?"

"True, but—the General Theory of Relativity is built on the principle that the speed of light in a vacuum is _constant_. Although, I guess to _really_ understand why a black hole can trap light—though light travels at a constant velocity—it would require an understanding of the General Theory of Relativity."

"Which I don't really understand much at _all."_

_"_Essentially, the point is that—black holes _curve_ spacetime back in on itself, making it so that all paths in the interior of the black hole lead back to the singularity at the center, no matter which direction you go." Shuffling back, Natasha sets down her tools to face Jan. "There's a crude analogy in two dimensions stating that—no matter which direction you go on the surface of the Earth in a 'straight line', or a geodisc, you would never escape the Earth and eventually return to the point of origin. Now, try imagine extending that analogy to the four dimensions of spacetime and you have a rough explanation for why light travels at light speed, but cannot escape the interior of a black hole."

Jan looks thoughtful. "Is that kind've how Sue's abilities work? You know—when she turns invisible?"

"I think that's actually more a psionic ability, to be honest. Sue seems to be able to manipulate ambient cosmic energy. But I guess the effect is similar, huh? She can bend wavelengths of visible, infrared and ultraviolet light around her without actually causing an apparent distortion in the environment."

Jan nods and for the rest of the day Natasha allows her to continue posing her idle questions.

Pym seem bemused when he'd look up from his work to find his girlfriend absent from his side, but for once, Natasha takes no joy in being the source of his ire. Jan makes for surprisingly good company and her questions, strangely, help Natasha focus. She begins to consider what uses she might have for the singularity that she'd not considered before. The Negative Zone would inevitably perish, though that would not occur for several million years.

Still, beyond what Prison 42 could offer, perhaps there was power to be had with one's own personal black hole sitting conveniently where it could be accessed at any time.

* * *

The following day, Natasha wastes no time in organizing a meeting with Fury. The Fantastic Four agree to accompany herself and Pym, but she is not prepared for the small gathering that awaits them. Fury is accompanied by Hill and Coulson, in addition to Rogers, Barton and Romanoff. Seeing this, Natasha frowns, because, expectedly, Barton and Rogers fall behind the moment the topic veers into the topic of Prison 42.

"What's a 'Big Crunch'?" Barton asks, appearing annoyed to be a part of a conversation that didn't immediately involve his expertise.

"A big _crunch_," Natasha states, unable to conceive how she can make the concept any simpler. "You know—like the _Big Bang_. But—the _opposite."_

With much more experience explaining subjects to those of a lesser intellect, Reed says, "The Negative Zone is much older than our own universe. Our data shows that it has already begun to contract—"

"Resulting in the massive singularity at is heart," Natasha adds.

"It will eventually implode," Pym notes.

"_Has_, already, begun to deteriorate," Natasha corrects.

"We've found that much of the debris being pulled into the singularity are, in fact, the remains of ancient civilizations and once habitable planets," Reed states.

"Fascinating," Fury grunts, not looking impressed at all. "How does that affect _us?"_

Reed nods, tapping a figure into the conference table's computer so that the holographic projector at its center changed to display a simulated video of the singularity within the Zone. "Our estimation puts the beginning of the Big Crunch at about—"

Natasha interjects, "—one _million_—"

Reed nods, "One million years ago. Of the remaining species that still inhabit this universe that our probes and Iron Woman were able to—"

"—and _Ultron_."

Natasha snorts, rolling her eyes. "Ultron is hardly a reliable source for—"

"Focus. Can we _focus?"_ Fury growls, glaring at Pym and Natasha with his single eye. Turning back to Reed, he sighs, "Doctor Richards? You were _saying_?"

Clearing his throat, Reed glances between Pym and Natasha uncomfortably and Pym rolls his eyes, making a dramatic hand gesture for Reed to continue. "Ah, yes. Of the remaining species that still inhabit this universe, it appears that the focus for many of them has turned to survival. Not just for their respective races—but for that of surrounding civilizations. Although we have not located the source, one of these civilizations appears to have discovered a way to utilize microorganisms—or, _spores_—to terraform the outlying planets."

It takes a moment for Fury to digest this information. Then, nodding, he simplifies Reed's assessment to, "So, the Negative Zone _is_ habitable."

"Not to humans," Reed corrects.

"Yet," Natasha adds.

Pym says, "But we're getting there."

Natasha nods, "It's definitely possible."

"Awesome," Barton mutters. "Couldn't have just said that in the first place?"

"What is your estimation on the time for completion, Doctor Richards?"

"Two months," Reed says.

"Earth time," Natasha amends.

"Earth time," Pym confirms and Reed nods.

Fury rolls his eye and looks to Agent Hill. Sensing an unspoken question, she says, "The Big House has been completed and is ready for use. We can begin transferring inmates immediately."

"I've got my men working on the other three sites," Natasha states. "There's about a month left of construction on them and I've already completely the design for the security AI."

"That was fast," Fury comments, almost impressed. He sounds mostly suspicious, however, and Natasha snorts.

"They'll be up to the task. No worries. I've personally attended to each site. We're good."

Fury nods curtly, "Good, then—"

He gestures for Coulson and the other man continues, "As of this morning, we've received confirmation that the operatives working in unison with the terrorists Radioactive Man, Melter and the Black Knight—were, in fact, a faction of the new HYDRA movement—"

"_What?"_ Rogers snaps, sitting at attention from the dozing slouch he'd adopted during the science debrief.

Coulson meets Rogers' eyes in acknowledgment but does not address the outburst. "Given what we know of them and the evidence of their relationship to these particular men—"

"Let's not forget Amora," Natasha adds, interest piqued by this revelation.

"Correct," Coulson affirms.

Sitting forward, Natasha looks to Fury before Coulson can continue. "This is well beyond our pay grade, isn't it?"

"We'll handle it," he assures gruffly.

She snorts, "But the problem is that there's more of _them_ than there is of _us._ We don't have enough guys to fight these so called 'super-villains'."

Fury gestures loosely to Pym, grunting, "Doctor Pym is still working on the Super Soldier Serum."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rogers stiffen. Natasha sneers, "We're not _making_ heroes, Fury. How would that make us any different from _them?_ These people are grabbing kids and felons off the streets so they can manufacture their own private army."

Agent Hill interjects, tone strained with annoyance, "You said it yourself. We _need_ more people."

Natasha is pissed by her matter-of-fact tone but she doesn't argue, allowing Coulson to man the meeting once again. She feels eyes and glances across the table to meet Rogers' scowl. He offers the barest of nods—one of understanding and camaraderie—and Natasha returns the gesture in kind.

She is unsure of the exact meaning behind this exchange—only knows that it means she's not alone and that the Captain will stand beside her despite whatever differences lay between them.

As the meeting concludes, Rogers is whisked away immediately by Coulson and Natasha prepares to excuse herself—until Pym corners her with a scowl. "I plan to leave security detail for the Big House to Ultron. Is that going to be a problem?"

"Not at all," Natasha replies, weariness from the past couple of days staying her sharp tongue. "Ultron is a passive AI, good for gathering data. We might learn a lot about the people who end up in the Big House."

Surprised by her civility, Pym nods. "My thoughts exactly."

"You're still thinking you can reform them?" Natasha asks, judgment mostly absent from her tone.

"That's the idea, at least," Pym shrugs.

Reed and the Four stop by to bid their goodbye, Reed's companions looking eager to escape the stifling environment. Unsurprisingly, Johnny Storm makes a point to inquire about any plans she might have later on and she doesn't bother engaging in flirtatious banter, replying flatly that she's not interested as her mind swims with a hundred different little puzzle pieces that she needs to find a place for.

"Uh oh," Barton sings as she's making her way out of the room, falling into step beside her.

"What do you want?" Natasha replies shortly, in no mood to entertain. Fury's implications weigh heavily on her and the idea that S.H.I.E.L.D. would turn to subjecting people to the same experimental procedures that had led to Bruce's nightmarish life in the hopes of developing another Rogers was both infuriating and frightening.

"Nat and I have a bet," Barton continues, unfazed by her tone as he keeps pace with her.

"About?"

"You."

She rolls her eyes. "Awesome."

She can hear his grin when he says, "And I'm pretty sure I'm gunna win. I saw you reject the matchstick and you can't tell me he's not the sort of guy you normally go for."

Natasha falters, startled, "Johnny?"

Barton's grin widens, facing her to leer, "I also saw the way you and the Cap kept lookin' at each other during the meeting when you thought no one was looking."

Natasha stops completely, stunned. "What?"

Barton stops as well, pointing at her expression and grinning, "The lack of sass implies that something is _definitely _up."

Before Natasha can respond, Romanoff brushes past Barton, muttering, "It's not Rogers."

Taking the statement as challenge, Barton abandons Natasha to trail after Romanoff, arguing, "It is _so_ Rogers. Who the hell else could get Stark to settle down?"

The two walk away a Natasha watches them go as a quiet panic weaves carefully around her chest.

The words 'settle down' seem to form like lead in her belly.

* * *

"Where exactly am I, Eric?"

"Relax, little brother. Just—c'mon."

Simon Williams scowls, rubbing at his shoulder irritably as he falls silent beside Eric, eyeing their surroundings with weariness. It would not be the first time Eric had gotten him involved with something illicit, and the shady-looking warehouse Eric had asked to meet in was doing nothing to settle his distrust. Several men and women in lab coats flit between workers in heavy jeans and thick tool belts, engrossed in their work. As they moved further into the warehouse, towards the offices at the back, Simon catches a whiff of a strange scent—something not easily placed.

He's distracted from this as they reach a windowless office and Simon can't help but feel entranced by the beautiful blonde that is there to greet his brother. He falls mute, capable of little more than a smile when Eric turns to introduce him with a smirk.

"I'd like to introduce my brother, Simon," Eric says, eyes lingering on Simon's expression knowingly, smirk widening. The blonde smiles and Simon is breathless. "Simon, this is Lady Amora."

"A pleasure, Mr. Williams," Amora murmurs, her eyes flickering over the length of his body and making him feel incredibly remorseful for skipping the gym this week.

"Ah—" Simon stammers, looking helplessly to his brother for aid.

Eric grins, but dutifully steps in. "Lady Amora and her employer have heard all about your problems with the company—"

That snaps Simon back to attention and he frowns, bitterly. "Who _hasn't?"_

"It's not quite as public as you might fear," Amora says, smiling sympathetically and immediately easing his ire. "And we can help. The Baron is most sensitive to your plight."

"A _Baron?"_ Simon snorts, looking incredulously to his brother.

Eric smiles widely, without the usual teasing lilt, reaching out to grip Simon by the arm in a reassuring gesture. "Just trust us, little brother. We're going to make things right."

Simon looks between his older brother and the beautiful Amora hesitantly. His mind turns to the Stark Industries CEO and her own charming smile and the assurance that Williams Innovations was a project Natasha Stark _herself_ had taken personal interest in.

As _if_ the notorious Stark could be bothered to step down from her pedestal long enough to be aware that anybody else _mattered._

Releasing a breath of relief, he turns his most genuine and grateful smile to his brother, who—despite all his shortcomings—has only ever had Simon's best interest at heart.

"Okay, Eric. What do I need to do?"

* * *

"What did Fury want?" Loki asks when she returns, meeting her downstairs in the workshop. He is absent his Asgardian armor, tailored suit in its stead.

"Usual," Natasha grunts, hefting a heavy plate of armor with both arms and glaring disapprovingly at DUM-E when his arm knocks over an armguard from her desk. Scowling, she gestures with her armload at Loki, "Here. Help me out with this." To the robotic arm, she growls, "DUM-E, you shit, I'm going to sell you to scrap if you keep this up."

"He knows you don't mean that," Loki says, complying by accepting the armor plate and smirking down at her.

"He's a spoiled brat, is what he is," Natasha grumbles, retrieving the armguard and whacking DUM-E lightly with it before dropping it atop the pile of dissembled armor.

"Is this a new suit?" Loki asks, unsurprised.

"Yes it is and you're going to love it."

"Am I, now?" Loki snorts, holding the armor plate as if it weighed nothing and reaching to lock it into place on the mounting arm hanging down from the ceiling. "I thought you were working on the one for the Extremis."

Natasha studies him for a moment, bothered by his persistent interest in the Extremis Project. "This one is for something different."

"How so?" Loki remarks, peering around the armor with a teasing smirk. He steps around to surprise her with a swift kiss.

Stunned, she is struck with the sudden feeling of … domesticity.

It is unnerving and unwelcome and her earlier panic flares so brightly she almost gives in to the sudden urge to flee. Loki's gift, the necklace she always wears about her neck, is abruptly too heavy of a weight, choking her.

She has to shake herself to regain composure before she turns her focus to the armor.

"This one is for you," she explains, carefully stepping around her desk so it stands between them. She grabs at a handful of tools without purpose and tries to make herself look busy. "I was wondering if there was a way I could make a suit that responded to your magic the same way my suits respond to JARVIS."

"An intriguing notion."

As the Trickster's interest falls to the armor she feels the anxiety in her belly and around her heart settle. Swallowing, she hesitates before returning to his side so she can continue working on the armor. "I'm going to have to do a little more research on your magic, though, if that's okay?"

"So long as the data remains for your eyes, only," he replies with a smirk, bright eyes settling on her. The implication of trust chips away at her composure and she knows she fails miserably at her attempt to smile in return when he frowns. "What is the matter?"

She snorts, averting her eyes quickly to the armor as Barton's grin flickers in her memory. "Nothing."

"Was it something Fury said?"

Sensing an opportunity to divert his attention, she sighs, feigning exasperation at the mention of the man. While Fury should have been a primary concern, she is unable to pull herself away from Barton's implications. He might have been way off in regards to Rogers, but it brought to light every qualm she'd had before she'd given into her libido to lay with Loki.

"He thinks we might need … help," she says, twirling a wrench in one hand as she moves to stand between Loki and the armor, back to the God so she won't have to meet his piercing gaze. Loki's hands settle on her shoulders, chest lining up with her back. The strange brittle feeling in her belly returns, so she keeps her hands busy with the armor and thinks about all the ways she plans on ruining Barton's life.

"_My_ help?" Loki wonders, intrigued.

Natasha grimaces. "Not … necessarily."

She can feel him tense behind her. "Thor."

The hands drop from her shoulders and she feels him retreat. Turning, she watches him cautiously as he stalks away in a strict pace. He turns sharply when he reaches the wall of Iron Women, glower in place. "And he thinks I would simply _call_ upon my brother and—_what?_"

Neutrally, she folds her arms and shrugs. "I told him it wasn't an option for you."

He takes her words in and then sneers. "Is it an option for _you?"_

She holds his eyes, reading his irritation easily—understands that Thor is the proverbial thorn in Loki's side and a part of her would be glad if the Thunder God never had occasion to return. However …

She sighs, "I don't want Asgard getting involved in our affairs, but—"

Loki's sneer dissolves but the scowl remains. He spits the name like poison: "Amora."

Natasha watches him, gauging his reactions. "I think there's something going on with her that you're not telling me—"

With an unexpected burst of exasperation, Loki stalks towards her, slashing a hand through the air, "If it was something I believed you _needed_ to know—"

"But there _is_ something," Natasha says, feeling strangely calm because this was as close to a confession she's ever gotten. Loki's expression gives nothing away as he stills before he's within reach of her. The lack of response is indication enough. Dismissively, she adds, "_And—_you don't trust me enough to say what."

He says nothing. Not that Natasha expected anything. She takes his silence and considers their situation.

When she had faced Obi, she had been reckless—inexperienced. She'd brazenly taken her revenge against the men who had wronged her and then, later, she had been too proud to turn for help when it came time to pay the toll for her that vengeance. That same brashness and arrogance and ignorance had led to Loki gaining the upper hand a year ago.

With growing frequency, she's thought about how readily she'd accepted the slow death by the only thing keeping her alive—stubbornness and pride staying her tongue when the thought of revealing her vulnerability was yet more inconceivable than seeking aid or comfort. She's thought about whether the death of Iron Woman could have prevented Loki from obtaining the information that he did—or if everything would have played out as it was meant to, but without Iron Woman to carry away the bomb that could have wiped her childhood home from the map.

Or would it have been left to someone else to make the sacrifice? Someone else to carry the burden of memory of just what lay on the other side of that portal?

Given the choice, Natasha would gladly be rid of her memories of that event.

But not at the cost of resting them upon the shoulders of another.

She looks back at where she had been years ago, toxic blood poisoning her body—poisoning her _will_—and she feels _disgust._

"Which is fine," she says quietly after a moment, eyes averted. "You _shouldn't_ trust me. I will always put my interests before yours. I know you'd do the same. I know you _will_ do the same."

She sees Loki shaking his head out of the corner of her eye, blurting, "It—Natasha." He moves in front of her, cool palm laying across her cheek to draw her eyes to his. "Natasha, it is not so simple. I _do_ trust you. More than—I trust you. I do."

Her expression betrays her skepticism, she knows, but she allows his hand to remain where it is, determined not to allow his words to relieve the weight she feels bearing down on her. He seems simultaneously impatient and sincere and it sets her on edge. The way his eyes flick back and forth, searching hers—she doesn't know what he's looking for and she doesn't want it to matter. If he's looking for reassurance, she doesn't want him to find it—she doesn't want to be his solution or a part of some ploy.

It's time to grow up. To stop pretending whatever they have can remain simple when people are getting hurt or dying or _worse._

To stop pretending that the rules somehow don't apply to her just because she's Natasha Stark.

HYDRA, super powered terrorists and an Asgardian Goddess with a vendetta; this had become her life and it was still as difficult as ever to digest if she lingered too long on the fact that this was _reality._

"Natasha," Loki murmurs, drawing her from her thoughts. She feels the tension that has settled over her expression and tries to relax it into something that is not as revealing. Green eyes burn into her and the chill from his hand on her cheek sends a shiver down her spine. "It is _because_ I trust you that I cannot tell you."

She frowns, lips curling to a sardonic smirk. "You understand how that does nothing to comfort me at all, right?"

"I understand," he frowns, dropping his eyes to the space that remains between them. "It is difficult for me, too."

She snorts, incredulously, "How is this difficult for _you_? You seem to be holding all the cards. Again. _I'm_ just left scrambling to gather the pieces and—I'm sick of it. I'm sick of _losing_."

He looks up at her, expression blank and tone eerily cold as he takes in her words. "So—what does this mean? For—"

He trails off.

'_Us?_' is the word that echoes in her chest but she can't be sure that isn't just her own treacherous desires betraying her resolve_. _

"What do you want, then?" Loki asks, watching her almost wearily, now.

She holds his gaze. "I want Thor."

Exasperation flickers across his face but he reigns it in. "Natasha, you don't _need_ Thor—"

"But I _want_ him," she snaps, in the same breath bringing her hand to rest over his against her cheek, her grip tight around his fingers. She allows the strength of her hold to convey what she cannot put into words. "I _trust_ him. And I'm _scared_. I'm scared that whatever we're facing—it's not going to be enough. _I'm_ not going to be enough. _Pepper_, Loki. Think of _Pepper_ and _Happy_. I'm not asking you to tell me anything more than—"

"I know that it is asking for a lot," Loki says, apologetic as cradles her face between both hands, now. "But you must have _faith_. You must _understand_—

She shakes her head, huffing, "But I _don't_ understand. That's the _problem_—"

He bows his head against hers and she's terrified by the flicker of vulnerability she glimpses in his eyes—remembers he's a _liar_ and _manipulator_ and he only ever shows what he wants you to see. "You will. You _will_ and _I_ can't tell you. You have to trust me."

_Trust _him?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries to erase that second of weakness before it can take root in _her _and destroy her already wavering conviction. "_Why?_ Why should I? How _can_ I?"

"Because I am Loki. Because I am bound to _nothing._ Because I am the Trickster and I am Chaos." His words are a breath against her lips, urgent. "And I chose _this._ I chose _you."_

No.

No no no.

_Don't_.

This was supposed to be _simple._

While the rest of her world fell into the madness that her life had become, _this_ was supposed to be _simple._

He's using her like he uses everyone—like _she_ has used _him_—and that's all it's ever been. That's all _they_ have ever been—_pieces_ on each other's boards, useful only so long as they served a purpose. She wants him—but she can no longer ignore the fact that he is playing his own game, all the while hers has been changing and mutating into something she's still trying to adapt to. The world doesn't just need _Iron Woman. _It needs the _Avengers. _Loki is useful, but he's also a liability—and the world has changed too much and there is much more at stake than herself or the lives of her friends. It's easy for him to be selfish.

_He_ doesn't have anything to lose and an eternity to regain it.

_She _is playing with fire and for the first time—she can feel the heat.

Loki's free hand shifts to the back of her head as his mouth moves to cover hers. She stumbles with the force of the unexpected kiss, her back meeting the forgotten armor hard enough that it rocks upon its mount. Her hand moves to grip his collar—in part for leverage, but mostly out of instinct—and she sucks in a sharp breath as his hands flare briefly with a sudden burning chill. By the time she realizes that he's moved forward against her, leaving her completely pinned between him and the armor plate, she's already too intoxicated to react.

Everything—all her frustration and desperation—seems to gather in a hot ball at the pit of her stomach. It swallows the helplessness that's embraced her since Chameleon had turned up wearing the bloodied face of Captain America—since the realization that Fury might be right and that they might not be enough; that maybe the Super Soldier Serum was the only weapon they had against HYDRA and their allies.

It's only for a moment—the relief—but she can pretend that nothing else exists. Only the burning inside of his mouth that is neither hot nor cold and the taste of him on her tongue she thinks she will savor forever.

Then, just as abruptly, he pulls away, his teeth descending on the curve of her jaw as he murmurs, "I chose you. I chose Pepper and Happy. I chose this _miserable _rock over Asgard." He drops his hand from the back of her head to her waist. "I am selfish, Natasha Stark. I care for none more than I care for myself—for what _belongs_ to me."

She arches her head back against the armor plate, eyes to the ceiling as his mouth moves to her neck and she feels the hot ball from her stomach knot itself in her throat. "… What makes you think we _belong_ to you?"

His lips move to her ear, the high arch of his cheekbone digging into her temple painfully. "Because I am a God."

She's silent, hand sliding away from his collar to smooth over his hair where it curls away from his neck. Closing her eyes, she listens to the rapid beat of her heart and focuses on the mental image of it pounding away just beneath the reactor.

Loki moves from her neck to her lips and speaks in a low, dangerous murmur into her mouth:

"Because I have chosen."

* * *

**End Notes: **Dear god. I thought this would never get done. It's not even as long as I would have liked but it was like pulling teeth to get this chapter done. It just did not want to come together at all. Sorry for the delay. Again, I'm not sure when I'm going to be able to return to my usual weekly schedule. It's all very blargy right now.

Excuse and mistakes and all that. I was just relieve to get this chapter done. I'm pretty sure I did a worse job than usual proofing.


	19. Let Me Be Your Religion

**Crimson and Viridian:**

**Everything Burns**

**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairings: **FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

**Warnings:** For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.  
**Notes: **Bromance and Romance: Natasha sucks at both.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen:

_Let Me Be Your Religion_

She is awake in an instant, without the usual drowsy transition between fitful dreams—that were more memories, perverted by an overactive imagination that seemed to enjoy twisting and distorting fact into something nightmarish and bleak—and full alertness. She sits up in bed with a frown already curling around her mouth and furrowing her brow. Experiences a strange moment of _nothing_—her mind blank for the first time that she can remember. The weight on her lap draws her attention after a moment when it shifts and she looks to see Loki's arm flung loosely about her waist—sets a hand almost tentatively to trace the muscles of his forearm to his bicep, enjoying the coolness of his skin.

The conversation from the day before slowly returns to mind and she feels her stomach twist, queasy with unease for a number of reasons.

She doesn't actually believe that Loki feels anything more for her than attraction and a strange fascination, but Barton's meddling had made her startlingly aware that she had allowed the Trickster a part of herself that she had never shared with another. It was nothing more than she shared between Pepper and Rhodey, but those relationships had been built over several years and several more mistakes and she'd never been involved with either of them in the way she was involved with Loki. She doesn't know if this _means_ something—doesn't _want_ it to mean something—or if Loki, by being Loki, was simply _exempt_ from any expectation. She knows that she's in no danger of allowing her feelings for him to become detrimental to herself—but that she even has to _assure_ herself of this is concerning.

Change doesn't scare her. She's all _about_ change. But—there are _some_ things she just can't bring herself to change. There is a structural foundation to her—and for all that her exterior has been altered, for all the renovations to her character and her life … there are _some_ things that _can't_ change.

Some things that _terrify_ her.

She doesn't want to be the kind of person who is dependent on another for happiness. Doesn't want to need _anyone._ She _doesn't_ need Loki. Will never _need_ Loki. She doesn't want to be clouded by feelings or lust or anything.

She doesn't want to lose who she _is._

"Have you made your decision, then?"

Startled, she's broken from her thoughts. She looks to where Loki is stretched, facedown, beside her, face buried into a particularly voluminous pillow. He's watching her with sharp eyes and an unreadable expression, but his arm feels relaxed across her lap.

They study each other in silence for a minute, neither willing to reveal a thing. Until, eventually, Natasha sighs, leaning in to press her forehead to his shoulder, flexing her hand around his arm in a light squeeze.

"I won't ask that you speak with Thor," she murmurs, trying to convince herself she's doing this because it's what _she_ wants and not because it's something Loki is opposed to. "Asgard shouldn't be involved at all in the first place."

She knows that's not the answer he is looking for, but there is no answer she's ready to give. As she moves to sit back, Loki turns onto his side, reaching for her shoulder to keep her in place. His expression is neutral and she recognizes the invitation, but she doesn't move, holding his gaze until he eventually tugs her forward. Reacting on instinct, she angles her head at the last second and cool lips miss their mark, settling at the corner of her mouth instead.

This time, when she moves to sit back, Loki does nothing to stop her, lying on his back with a sigh, eyes to the ceiling.

"I should get going," she says after a moment, watching his face for a reaction. "I still have a lot of work to do."

Loki regards the plain white of the ceiling soberly. "You always have a lot of work to do."

Natasha says nothing as she heads for the shower.

* * *

As she enters the main room of the Tower, Natasha pulls her wet hair into a loose bun, taking note of Peter ducked behind the bar and gathering an assortment of alcohol-free refreshments from the fridge. She smiles idly to herself and does not announce her presence as she makes her way to the Tower console.

"_Ma'am,"_ JARVIS says suddenly, startling Peter, who jolts out from behind the bar with a stuttered, "It's not what it looks like!"

Natasha rolls her eyes, shaking her head and waving off his concern. "What's up, Jay?"

"_You have a message waiting for you at your private terminal. Would you like me to patch it through to your Stark phone?"_

"Go ahead." Spotting Peter trying to make a break for it with his loot, Natasha pins him with an inquisitive look. "Where are _you_ going?"

Peter grimaces, flustered as he begins pacing backwards towards the elevator. "Ah—I have a tutoring session—?"

"Tutoring?" Natasha snorts, skeptical.

Nervously, he stammers, "Ah—not for _me_. For—"

Crossing her arms, Natasha turns to face him, arching a brow and regarding him suspiciously. A ghost of a smirk flickers across her lips as she sees his cheeks flush with embarrassment. "What—am I not _paying_ you enough?"

"No! No, no. There's just this girl in my class—"

"Oh. A _girl_, huh?"

"Not like _that._"

"Of course not. You have _Gwen_."

"Gwen and I—"

Natasha shifts her weight to one hip, leering, "So you're ditching me because you've gotta tutor a _girl_?"

"I—" Peter frowns, clamping down on the rest of his response as he considers her posture and tone and recognizes the mocking lilt of her words. Clearing his throat, he amends with a more confidant, "Yes."

"Well, what if I need you?"

He looks skeptical. "_Do_ you need me?"

Natasha frowns, not seeing how that's even a point. "Well, not right _now_. I said 'what _if'_."

Peter stares for a moment, then nods. "Right. Well," he turns, heading for the elevator decisively. "If you _do_, you can always just call. But I should really go."

Before Natasha can argue against that, he's already calling for the elevator. Rolling her eyes, she turns back to her console, grabbing her phone from the desk to see that the message had already been transferred by JARVIS. Maya Hansen's name glares up at her from the screen, along with the flag tacked to the subject line of her message reading: **URGENT**.

As Peter slips into the elevator, she sees Loki appear from the hall dressed surprisingly casual—shirt un-tucked and unbuttoned and slacks hanging loose around his bare feet. Peter spots him and grins brightly, struggling to wave around his armload as he steps into the elevator.

"Good morning, Mr. Olson!"

Loki stops to frown at him, grumbling, "Peter." Then, noticing the assortment of drinks in his arms, Loki's eyes narrow and he mutters, "Why are you absconding with half the bar inventory?"

"Only the non-alcoholic half! Promise!" Peter grins cheekily as the doors close in front of his face.

Natasha watches the numbers above the elevator decline with growing dread in her belly. When Loki turns to face her, his expression is absent all emotion—completely unreadable.

"Do you have a moment?"

Panicking silently, Natasha blurts, "Actually, ah—" She shoves her phone into her pocket and locks the Tower console, turning to Loki with a brief smile before darting towards the elevator. "No. I don't. I've got a message from Hansen waiting for me in the labs. She says it's urgent."

Loki's eyes flick to the pocket where her phone sits and for a moment she thinks he's going to call her bullshit.

But then he just nods and lets Natasha slip out without a word.

It isn't until the elevator arrives and the doors have closed between them that Natasha breathes a sigh of relief. Shaking her head at her own idiocy, she grabs her phone and flicks the screen to life.

Maya's message plays immediately:

"_Hey, Stark. I ran your code through the program and—I can't believe this—but it _worked!_ Give me a call as soon as you can! This is unbelievable! This is going to change_ everything!"

Natasha is already retrieving her number from her contacts and making the call. Maya answers immediately.

"_Stark! You got my message."_

"Obviously," Natasha intones, watching the slivers of light appear and disappear between the doors of the elevator as she descended past each floor. "So, what's your plan?"

"_Well—without government funding—I mean, the next step would logically be testing and—"_

"Maya, if I could, I would help. But Pepper's in charge now and the Extremis is highly weaponizable. It's not something I want my name attached to. Iron Woman is one thing, but I can't have Stark Industries—"

"_I know, I know. You've said all this before. I get it. I appreciate all that you've done for me this far. I have a few connections who've been good supporters thus far. If I can talk to them, I might be able to wring a little more out of them."_

"Let me know how that goes. The government should be a last resort. You know they'll fuck you over if they get a whiff of this."

_"Yeah. I know._" Maya snorts, sardonic. "_How's the suit, by the way? And—again—you _sure_ about this? I mean, it's a volatile enough solution with just—"_

"I'm sure. Don't have much of a choice."

"_Are things really so bad on your side? I thought things were dying down after what happened in New York."_

"Not quite," Natasha mutters, scowling.

"_I heard there was another attack the other day. Does it have anything to do with that?"_

"Classified, Maya," Natasha smirks, stepping out of the elevator as soon as the doors open. "Stop fishing."

"_It's interesting. I can't help it. Who would have thought my college drinking buddy would be out there saving the world in a suit of armor? You make the rest of us look like a bunch of slackers."_

"It's not all fun and games." As she enters the garage, JARVIS unlocks the Audi when she approaches. "I'll head over to your lab in a bit."

"_Great. See you then."_

* * *

"I've got visual," Steve murmurs, ducking low behind several transport crates, eyes pinned to the quad of men he can see just within the warehouse. The uniforms are different without the prominent HYDRA symbol to mark their allegiance, but he recognizes it from his encounter with the group from the other day. "I can't see where they're keeping the hostages—"

"_There's no guarantee that these _are_ hostages, Captain,"_ Widow's voice responds evenly. "_Some of them might have joined of their own volition."_

"I doubt that would be the case if they _really_ understood what they were getting themselves into," Steve replies darkly, scowling through the scope of his assault rifle at the group of HYDRA operatives.

He can sense the disagreement from Widow through the COM but she keeps her silence.

They are positioned outside the back of the warehouse, the open area of the docking station standing between them and their objective. Only four HYDRA operatives are visible within the warehouse, but the dock is littered with various guards, including one individual decked out in full costume—a super, no doubt, but not one Steve recognizes. Just as Steve is preparing to give the order to move in, however, all hell breaks loose.

Unsurprisingly.

The commotion comes from within the building—several flares blinding him from being able to make out what is going on. It serves to distract the men on the dock and Steve takes the opportunity to order his team forward. He stays low to the ground, storming ahead of the agents and replacing his shield with his rifle. He moves behind the super and pulls him into a choke hold, hand over his mouth and nose as he flexes his muscles around the man's throat. The instant he feels him go limp, Steve releases him, checks for a pulse, and then moves forward towards the side door.

His team takes position under the windows and by the door on the other side of the warehouse. Steve has lost track of Widow, but that's to be expected. He waits for a signal from an agent near the windows before he moves in, shield drawn in front of himself.

The interior of the warehouse is lit up by a dozen different light sources, shouts of anger and surprise ringing in his ears as the enemies engage with an unknown assailant. A man charges for him, startled by his appearance, but Steve grapples him against a wall with enough force that he's knocked out. As Steve rounds a corner, a kid—no older than Peter—charges for him, hands aglow with power and terror painted on his face.

A flash of something hits the kid squarely in the back and he goes toppling forward, his hands dimming as the energy is dispersed.

Scowling, Steve looks for the source of the attack and spots a flash of red—thinks: _Spiderman?_—but then the acrobatic form is moving to disarm the rest of HYDRA with precise shots of energy. Eventually, he is able to discern the figure as a woman and watches as she, single-handedly, takes out the entire room of HYDRA. When she's finished, Black Widow appears from a back office, bringing with her the group of hostages they'd been assigned to retrieve.

Steve straightens as he studies each hostage, noting that they are all young—between their teens and mid-twenties, some younger, even. Widow has them stand away from the window in a line while the woman in form-fitting red stands intimidatingly before them, regarding the group from behind the whites of the eyes on her mask.

"Is this all of them?" The woman asks, a vague European accent to her words and disapproval in her tone.

"That I could find," Widow replies just as curtly.

It occurs to Steve suddenly that both Widow and the woman are referring to the hostages with the presumption of guilt. Moving forward, Steve returns his shield to his back and says to the group, "You're safe now. Nothing to worry about."

"That'll be for Fury to decide," the masked woman says dryly.

Widow moves away to call in and Steve bites down on the urge to question the woman for her name and involvement—doesn't want to present a divided front to the hostages that were relying on them to bring them to safety.

"Excuse me," one of the hostages says, stepping forward.

Immediately, the woman holds out a hand, priming energy in the palm of her hand.

The hostage freezes and Steve steps forward, positioning himself between the woman and the hostage. Easing his expression into something kinder behind his own half-mask, Steve smiles and asks, "What is it, son?"

The man hesitates, eyes darting behind Steve, then back. "You're—you're an Avenger, aren't you?"

Steve's smile widens as he nods. "That's right. I am."

The man's shoulders drop and his entire body radiates relief. "Oh thank God," he exhales, smiling weakly up at him.

"What's your name, son?" Steve asks—hears the woman snort derisively behind him before she walks away.

The man hesitates again, grimacing.

Then, "Simon. Simon Williams."

* * *

Natasha 's scowl darkens as the minutes tick by. Reed and Pym are occupied with their own work, but she is having a particularly difficult time concentrating and it has everything to do with the nuisance currently situated comfortably in front of her station, idly flicking sunflower seeds at her face just to see the furrow at her brow deepen. Determinedly, Natasha doesn't look away from her laptop, even as Barton snickers quietly to himself and flicks another seed at her, catching the corner of her mouth where it dipped sharply in displeasure.

When a seed flicks against her eyelid in the half-second it takes her to blink, she inhales sharply and pins the agent with a glare. "Seriously? Grow up."

"That's a laugh, coming from you," Barton grins, leaning back in his seat comfortable, propping the arm presently wrapped in a cast against his chest. Natasha glares at it accusingly, blaming the injured limb for Barton's presence, before shifting the glare to the man himself. "I'm on sick leave," Barton says as if reading her mind, twitching his fingers feebly for emphasis. "And I'm keeping you company. But it's not my fault you're _boring_ as fuck. Feel like I've been led on. You're not quite the party girl I thought you'd be."

"You couldn't bother _Natalie_?" Natasha grunts, scowling when she looks back at her screen and is incapable of focusing.

After all, she _knows_ why Barton's here.

"She's on assignment with Cap and the new girl."

"New girl?" Natasha blinks, curious.

Barton shrugs—then grimaces at his arm. He says, "She's not S.H.I.E.L.D. but she's got loyalty to Fury, I guess. He called her in. She's Special Ops. _And_ a super. Don't know much else. It's all '_classified'."_ Barton air-quotes with his uninjured hand, rolling his eyes.

"Interesting," Natasha murmurs, pulling up the S.H.I.E.L.D. database on her laptop and issuing JARVIS to bypass any firewalls they encounter.

"Let me know what you find," Barton mumbles idly as he pops a handful of seeds into his mouth.

It doesn't take Natasha long, but what she finds is hardly telling. Frowning, Natasha says, "Her name's Jessica Drew and it says she's from England, but—there's no date of birth. No family. Education. Nothing. It _does_ say she's a specialist on HYDRA activity—although, I don't know what _that_ means. She's known by, codename: … _Spider-Woman?_ Is that a joke?"

Barton levels her with a flat look. "It better be."

Natasha shrugs and shakes her head, looking back to the file. "Super strength. Super speed. Super _stamina._ Super _everything._ Jesus. She's got an immunity to toxins, poisons, drugs and radiation. Her body possess inordinate amounts of bio-electricity, which she can channel into 'Venom Blasts' that affect mostly the nervous system in humans. _Pheromone_ secretion—"

"Oh_ fun,"_ Barton drawls.

Natasha snorts, "Yeah. Better watch out."

"I was going to say the same to _you_," Barton leers, sitting forward to rest his cast on her desk. "I mean, we all know the Cap is a good boy, but even _he_ can't resist—"

"Seriously?" Natasha balks in disbelief, closing out of the file to glare at him.

Barton smiles, feigning innocence poorly. "I already told you: I'm not going anywhere until you tell me who he is. Nat thinks it isn't Rogers—but, seriously, who _else_ could it be?"

Glowering, Natasha turns back to her laptop, shaking her head.

"It's not Parker, he's too young. Is it _Banner?_ You into that? Nah—I don't think it's Banner. Rhodes? He seems like your type—"

"And what _is_ my type, Barton?" Natasha sneers at her screen, typing furiously as she brings up S.H.I.E.L.D.'S database again and searches Barton's profile.

"Who knows?" Barton laughs, oblivious to her plot. "I'm still convinced it's Rogers, but everyone else seems to disagree."

"Everyone _else?_" Natasha falters, gaping up at him. "Exactly who else is _involved_ in this bet?"

"Well, Coulson—_unofficially. _Nat. Sitwell. Bennett. Strause. Shevet—"

"I _get_ it."

"If you don't want people to think you're with someone, then why don't you just let Flameboy take you out?"

Natasha glares up at him. "Because maybe I'm not _interested_ in the kid? And maybe I've got more _important_ things to do than hook up with any random guy who asks me out? You know, like build four _maximum security prisons_ for _super villains_."

"True." Barton shrugs, conceding that point. "But Candlestick's not _that_ much younger than you and work's never interfered with your ability to pick up guys _before._"

"How do you even _know_ this?" Natasha asks, incredulous.

"Because I have _eyes?_" Barton snorts, shaking his head. "Every time you're with a guy it's plastered across every damn newsstand. '_Has Iron Woman finally found her Knight in Shining Armor?' _It's ridiculous." Natasha groans and Barton adds, "I can see why you'd decide to have Loki stand in to keep the press off your back. Gotta admit, guy's got charm. But then, that would make _sense_—given his whole _mind control_ thing."

Natasha feels her stomach drop—keeps her eyes carefully to her screen and scowl firmly in place so that Barton cannot read her unease. She feels the blood drain from her face but can only hope that the lighting of the lab will make it less apparent. "There's _no one_, Barton," she grits out, hands tightening to fists over her keyboard. "But if seeing me with some random tool is the only way to convince you, then why don't I just fuck _you_ and get your strange fascination with my sex life over with?"

"Okay."

"Goo—" Natasha chokes, looking up at the archer in surprise. "Wait. _What_?"

Barton smiles. "Alright, then. Let's do it."

Startled, Natasha sits back sharply, balking, "What? _No._"

He grins. "Exactly."

With a groan, Natasha drops her head to her keyboard, forehead balanced on the backs of her fists. Her heart is still vibrating in her chest at the mere _mention_ of Loki and she thinks she's going to be _sick_. "Dude, you're wearing me out."

Barton doesn't say anything and Natasha doesn't move, breathing in deeply through her nose as she tries to think about anything _but_ Loki.

"Wait," Barton mutters after a moment and Natasha peers up wearily over the top of her laptop to see his expression crumpled in disbelief. "It's _serious_, isn't it?" Natasha blinks and Barton jolts in his chair. "Shit! I didn't even—holy _fuck_!"

Rolling her eyes, Natasha sits up, slowly gathering her composure as Barton loses his. "Don't be an idiot, Barton."

Abruptly, Barton leans across the station to press his hand to her forehead, as if checking for fever. Finding nothing wrong, he sits back and presses the same hand against his brow, frowning. "Dude—the world must be ending. Is this for _real?_ You're actually in lo—"

"I will tear your tongue out of your mouth if you finish that sentence."

* * *

As it turns out, avoiding Loki serves only to add to her already generous levels of stress. In the end, she decides to take up patrol of the city after she realizes it will be futile to try and work with Barton in the lab to annoy her. She's surprised to run into Rogers and, after helping him deal with a minor burglary, accepts his invitation to lunch on the premise that she still owes him a tour of the city.

"Heard you were on assignment with Widow," Natasha says conversationally as she steps out of Iron Woman, leaving the suit to occupy the parking space in front of the small diner usually reserved for motorcycles.

"Wrapped that up. Didn't take too long. Coulson had already done all the recon," Rogers explains with a shrug, keeping his eyes trained on her and ignoring all the stares they were garnering as they entered the diner.

Natasha follows suit, much more accustomed to ignoring an audience and doing so with ease. "Anything interesting?"

"We might have a few new supers interested in joining the Avengers," Rogers says. At Natasha's arched brow, he amends with a smile, "Fury, of course, would prefer to keep the Avengers limited to … _exclusive_ personnel—"

"You mean _celebrities,"_ Natasha snorts, careful to keep her voice low as they find a booth furthest away from the other patrons. They take their seats across from each other and in a distant corner of her mind, she recognizes that this is the same shop she'd brought Loki to a year ago.

Rogers shuffles his shoulder, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of being considered a 'celebrity'.

Natasha smiles and drops the subject. "Well, I guess it's good to see not everyone has taken the vigilante route."

"Isn't that how _you_ started out?"

"Nah. Iron Woman was a means to an end for my own selfish reasons." For some reason, this seems to make Rogers smile and she frowns before shaking her head and adding, "Anyway, did you hear? There's some guy going around Hell's Kitchen calling himself _Dare Devil._"

Rogers frowns. "Is this a job for the Avengers, or can you deal with it on your own?"

"Ah," Natasha chuckles, shaking her head. "No. He's not—he's a good guy. Apparently. He's more interested in cleaning up the streets of his own neighborhood."

"Another Spiderman?" Rogers asks, vaguely disapproving.

"Well, he seems to mostly be targeting criminals with a connection to Kingpin."

"Sounds like a vendetta."

Natasha shrugs. "Well, I heard of him from Barton and he says Coulson's not worrying about it, so—" She shrugs again, smiling broadly and facetiously when a cute blonde waitress arrives to take their orders. "Coffee for now, please, doll."

"Coffee," Rogers says, smiling pleasantly.

With a flush, the waitress opens her mouth as if to say something to Rogers—but then she nods and ducks away before she can find her courage.

"Anyway," Natasha continues, eyes lingering on the waitress for a moment before dragging to Rogers. She sighs, allowing some of her weariness to seep through. "I just thought I'd let you know, in case you were interested in looking into it yourself. I've already got a lot on my plate and if he's not causing problems—whatever, man."

"I think I'll leave it, then. For now."

They spend hours talking about his cases—and Natasha even lets him in on some of the intel she (and Loki) have acquired over the past year. It's late before she realizes that the diner is empty and it's well past business hours, despite the fact that nobody had stopped by to disturb them—beyond the occasional refill and offer for food.

With a start, Natasha looks up from where they had sat huddled over her phone where it projected several files between them on various criminals he and S.H.I.E.L.D. or Natasha had confronted. She catches sight of the young blonde from earlier at the register counting out her drawer.

When their eyes meet, she smiles brightly and says, "Eddy and I will be another hour cleaning up in the back, so you guys are welcome to stay until then."

"I'm so sorry," Rogers says promptly, straightening as he realizes they must have overstayed their welcome. "We didn't realize—"

"No, really," the girl gushes, flushing. "This is such an honor! You guys are doing us such a big favor! You can't imagine how much we made today when people heard Iron Woman and Captain America were _here._ _Please_. You're welcome to stay."

When she's gone, darting into the back with a squeal to, presumable, Eddy, Natasha sits back in her seat and groans, meeting Rogers' eyes. "_Well_, now I'd feel like a shit for leaving."

Rogers grimaces, nodding, and fiddles with the spoon next to his now slushy cereal. Natasha doesn't even remember him ordering anything to eat, but it amuses her to think of him eating breakfast for dinner. She smiles and he catches the look, smiling in return.

Immediately, a sour taste settles over her tongue and she frowns, averting her eyes with a snort. "I don't get you, Rogers. I've been such an ass. Why the hell are you always so … _nice?"_

This startles a laugh out of him and she feels the corners of her mouth twitch upwards in response to the bright sound. "I'm sorry? I could try to stop, if you'd prefer?"

She wants to play it off as a joke, but she knows there's an ocean of bad blood between them and right now feels as good of a time as any to clear whatever they can. It's not like she's in any hurry to go home, but she feels ashamed for even raising the subject. Rogers' heart was vast and full of positive emotion—unlike _hers—_and she knew a large part of her was choosing the lesser of two evils in pursuing this subject over returning to the Tower and confronting Loki and her still conflicted emotions but she was too much of a coward to care.

She sighs, studying a corner of the cashier's counter to keep her focused. "I don't know how you do it. I don't know how you can be so … _good_ … all the _time._" She scowls, her tone harder when she says, "People—people are just so—most of them don't even _deserve _it. Why bother being so nice? You—you just _give_ so much of yourself and you … you never get anything in return. Don't—why do you even _try?"_

She feels stupid now that the words are out. She can hear her bitterness and her distaste. Knows that she's one of those people that aren't worth the effort of someone like Rogers and hates both him and herself for this inadequacy.

Bafflingly, Rogers says, "When I was growing up—I had this neighbor." Startled, Natasha looks to him, but he's studying the arch of his hands over his empty coffee cup. "He was an older fellow—Mr. Morrigan. A veteran of the Great War."

Natasha's not really sure where this is going but she feels her body go absolutely still—weary of disturbing Rogers from his thoughts.

"I used to think he just had it out for me or something," Rogers says with a wry grin, shaking his head as if to a fond memory. "He used to get me to do all sorts of chores for him and run all sorts of errands. There was nothing I could do about it and I thought he was just a bully—just one of those old men who grew bitter with life after the war and felt it was their right to take it out on everyone else. I hated him for it. I was miserable. Every morning he would have me wake up early to run his chores before school, and then when I got home, he'd have another list of things for me to do. I really—he made me _really_ miserable and he _knew_ it and he'd always laugh about it. He never seemed to care."

Frowning, Natasha begins to fidget in the silence that follows. "That … sucks?"

Rogers laughs, looking up at her and shrugging. "What I _didn't_ realize—obviously until much _later_—was _why_ he was doing it. You see, I didn't have my mother growing up. She left us when I was a kid and my dad—my dad didn't really do much raising." He hesitates, a shadow passing over his eyes as they drop to the table. "He was an alcoholic. A real heavy drinker. Every night and every morning. I guess it was so bad that you could smell the liquor on _me._"

_I'm familiar with that_, Natasha thinks bitterly, scowling. Rogers continues.

"Mr. Morrigan had been our neighbor since before I was born. He'd known my mom—said it was good riddance that she was gone. And I guess he was pretty familiar with my father from before the drinking because he used to talk about what a good man he used to be." Something strange flickers across Rogers' expression, but Natasha doesn't know him well enough to name it. She studies him more intently thereafter, sitting forward to rest her arms on the table between them. "One day—I was fifteen or so—and I decided I was _done_ being Mr. Morrigan's errand boy. That morning, I slept in the extra two hours he usually had me up for—and then when I woke up, my dad was there. Just standing over my bed, holding a bottle of—I don't know. I didn't need to know. He was already drunk—or _still_ drunk—and when I tried to get up—to get ready for school—I … I don't remember what happened or what I did. I just remember him grabbing my arm and—"

Something cold settles in Natasha's belly and she suddenly can't look at him—can hear her parents shouting distantly in her memories and tries to suppress the terror it used to bring.

"He beat me. He beat me for such a long time and I know I must have screamed but when … when you're _that_ out of it, it's hard to tell."

Somehow, there is no surprise. Just a sick, miserable twist of her gut. Her words are quiet and almost choked when she mutters, "Steve, you don't have to—"

"And then Mr. Morrigan came in—busting down our front door with more strength than an old man should have—and he tore my dad off me and he just shoved him away and I think my dad might have tried to fight back but Mr. Morrigan just held him—pinned him to the wall and looked like he was ready to punch him—arm drawn back and my dad was just … sobbing or shouting but—Mr. Morrigan just held him there and he waited until my dad calmed down and looked him in the eye and he just waited—and then, I remember, he said to my dad, 'that's the difference between you and I, Joe. I _wouldn't_. I'd _never._"

She is both relieved—and _torn._ She thinks it's fitting that Rogers should have a savior where she'd only had an idea of a shadow to guide her. Bowing her head, she hides her frown while she struggles to contain her resentment.

"In his own way, Mr. Morrigan had been protecting me—and it didn't matter to him that I had hated him and blamed him for everything," Rogers murmurs. "You see, kindness isn't expecting a reward. Kindness just _is. _You don't do it for the recognition—or because you think someone _deserves _it. You do it because it's the _good_ thing to do. It's not about what's wrong or right. Those sorts of things are a matter of opinion and perspective. It's about doing something _good_ for another person—even a complete stranger. Even if you never hear a 'thank you' and even if you'd like one._"_

A bitter smile twists at her lips and she feels her eyes burn. Bringing both hands to cover her face, she can't ignore the flicker of hatred she still feels for him. She remembers Loki's words, spoken what seems like an eternity ago.

"_I am and shall always be the black canvass upon which Thor's light shall be yet more blinding."_

Was that all she was?

The black canvass against Rogers' infinite white?

Then what was the point?

_Is this what you wanted, dad? _

_Did you create me just to prove to the world that none could ever achieve the perfection of your _first_ creation?_

" … Stark?" Rogers' voice breaks through her accusations, speaking her name carefully.

" … Natasha," she mumbles from behind her hands, inhaling slowly through her nose and squeezing her eyes until she's certain she feels no moisture that might betray her. Lifting her head, she snorts, rolling her eyes at his look of concern. "It's Natasha."

Rogers smiles, eyes bright with excitement. "Steve."

She nods curtly.

Then, because apparently they were in a sharing mood, she says with very little consideration, "I never spoke with my dad."

The sudden admission startles him, but he says nothing, waiting for her to continue. With some reluctance, she does, keeping her expression carefully neutral.

"He didn't really seem to care what I did. Always expecting better than the best, but there was never a point when I thought: _finally_. I've _finally_ made him proud. He would always tell me that someone's gotta have _iron_ in their backbone to be successful—and, I guess, in the end, I did that. Not sure what he'd think of what I've made of myself." She shrugs, going for nonchalance and mostly succeeding. "I know it sounds pretty pathetic—but, sometimes—I'm not sure he'd … _notice._ That was the thing about Howard. It's not like he was a terrible father—he just … wasn't. He wasn't anything. He was absent—lost in his drinking or lost in his grief. You were all that was ever important to him."

Rogers frowns as if the very idea disturbed him, but she merely smirks and shrugs again. "That's … not how I knew him."

"I know," she snorts, fiddling with a napkin to keep her distracted from the emotional consequences of delving into her memories. "He gave me my first drink when I was eight. Told me—told me that if I wanted to be part of a man's world, I needed to learn how to _be_ a man, first."

She remembers Howard clearly—because, despite his absence, every second he'd been home had _mattered_ to her, for whatever reason. He had been a stranger, but he had been her _father._ It was mostly fascination that drew her to him, but she knew that wasn't it completely and she _hated_ herself for her inability to detach herself from him as he had from them.

Looking up to Rogers, she frowns. "I—look—I'm not the _crying_ type, Steve. I didn't even cry at my parents' _funeral_. I'm not telling you this so you'll feel sorry for me or whatever. You just need to understand: the man _you_ knew was not the man he became. You took something of him with you when you disappeared and it's hard—it's _hard_ not to resent you for it."

She sees something too close to pity in his eyes and scowls, so he bows his head and murmurs, "I understand."

It's not what she wants to hear so she snorts, hand curling to a fist around the napkin as she laughs humorlessly, "I mean—I can't _complain_, can I? He left me a legacy. A name. Money and a home. Sometimes, it's a hassle. And I could bitch and moan about it—I mean, sometimes being me really fucking _sucks_. I can't go out to eat without getting accosted by a small army of reporters. Everything that I do or say is critically analyzed and interpreted in whatever ways suits others. People know what I can do, know that I'm responsible for all this cool tech the world gets to enjoy—but they don't expect me to _think_. I'm just another dumb bitch who likes to spend her daddy's money. It's not fair—but it's even worse because—how can I _complain_? I've got a good fucking life, all things considered. I mean—it could be _worse_."

She's not even sure it's just her father she's talking about, now, but Rogers doesn't stop her and her mouth seems to have a mind of its own.

"But I still hate it. You can look online and see what Starbucks I go to. You can look and see what _gym_ I go to. You can go online and look at my daily activities and nobody has a concept of what kind of _danger_ that puts people in. I'm constantly worried that something's going to get out that's going to put Pepper or Happy in danger. God forbid something happen to _Peter. _Or _Rhodey_, Jesus Christ. Rhodey is the closest thing I have to a brother and—" She cuts herself off, bowing her head and burying her hands into her hair. "Lately … I just wish I could erase Natasha Stark off the face of the world and just be Iron Woman. Just be invisible. I feel so useless all the _time_ and—I'm not _like_ you. I wish I _was_ more like you. I'm sure _a lot_ of people wish I was more like you. You're the _ideal_. But I'm just—I'm just Howard Stark's fucking _daughter_ and I have _no idea_ what I'm doing."

"What—" Rogers balks, startled. "Natasha, you're a _genius_. You're not just—"

She smirks, lifting her head to prop her chin on her fist. "I know that. You don't need to tell _me_. But when people look at me, all they see is a lot of money and fancy gadgets. And I could hate them for that. I could resent them. But—I can't, can I? That wouldn't be the _heroic_ thing to _do_. And it's harder, I think, as Iron Woman—when people believe in you so much—_so much._ It's harder than when no one believes in you at all. Being Iron Woman—people expect a lot more of her than they've _ever_ expected of Natasha Stark and—that's my fault. Howard Stark was a _hero_ but Natasha Stark is just … the irresponsible billionaire. And that's my fault. That's _all_ my fault."

Quietly, Rogers murmurs, "Of _course_ it's hard. There's no fear of failing when there's no one to care when we fall. But that can't be all that matters, Natasha. You'll destroy yourself before you've even given yourself the chance to rise."

She huffs, closing her eyes when she feels them burn again. "I just—I don't think I deserve it. I'm not you, Cap. I'm not—"

Startling her, Rogers reaches across the table to grip her wrist. He waits until her eyes open to meet his before speaking, expression severe and almost frightening.

"I think you're too busy trying to _be_ a hero instead of just being yourself. You didn't used to doubt yourself like this. I might not have known you well, but I can tell you _that _much. I don't think you realize how completely unprecedented you are. You're Natasha Stark, so just _be_ Natasha Stark. I'm not asking for anything more than that, and if that's not enough for people, then _screw them."_

Natasha blinks, stunned—feels her throat tighten strangely and looks away, shaking his hand off as she brushes away her unease with a laugh. "Wow, Cap. Language."

"Seriously," Rogers says, piercing gaze urging hers to meet his again. "You're my partner. We're a _team._ Being a hero means standing up for what you believe in. For what you believe is _right._ Whatever your opinion of yourself, _I _think you're a hero. Let that be enough."

* * *

Bruce frowns at the overly large flannel shirt, rolling the sleeves along his forearms. Though Logan was not much larger than himself, the man was built like a small tank. Subsequently, most shirts that would have fit Bruce are stretched beyond reason.

"You headin' back?" Logan calls from the other room.

"I have to," Bruce mutters with little conviction in his words.

"Bull. You don't gotta do _nothin',"_ Logan snorts, sharp ears picking up the quiet words. The sharp smell of coffee permeates the air, drawing Bruce from the bathroom and into the kitchen to join the other man.

"There are things I have to do. People that—" Need him? _No._ Pym and S.H.I.E.L.D. were only interested in the Hulk. And Natasha … Bruce doesn't know what Natasha wants. He trusts her, but he's a scientist as well. He knows the lure of the unknown—of the uncharted.

Logan doesn't comment on the lapse into thought—has come to expect it from him, it seems—because he draws him back out of his head by delivering a hot mug of strong coffee into his hand. "Fuck people. What do _you_ want?"

_I … want to be normal._

"I … want to go home."

"Fair 'nuff," Logan grunts, nodding curtly before taking a large gulp of his mug. "You _got_ a home to go back to?"

"I stay with a … friend," Bruce murmurs, grimacing at his reluctance to apply the qualification to Natasha, even after everything she's done for him. _Is_ doing for him.

Logan leers. "Friend or _friend?"_

Bruce scowls. "Just friend. A good friend. Probably my _best_ friend."

Logan nods, sobering. He doesn't ask why, then, that friend isn't _here_, with Bruce. He understands well enough, somehow, that there are certain things well beyond what should be expected of a friend.

When Bruce doesn't move, even to take a drink, Logan's knowing gaze shifts to the door.

"Have ya figured it out, then?"

Bruce frowns, confused, but waits because he knows Logan will eventually clarify.

"You're scared. Have ya figured out what scares ya?"

Easy_._

**_Nothing._**

_Everything._

"Y'think you'll lose control again?" Logan goes on without waiting for a response.

"Almost certainly," Bruce says without thought.

"Almost?"

"Unless I can fix this, somehow."

"So ya know," Logan says with a flash of a grin, turning to face him. "I'll be keepin' an eye out for ya."

"Well, then," Bruce chuckles. "Good luck to us _both_."

* * *

The following night, Natasha returns to the Tower exhausted and hungry enough that she is legitimately concerned her stomach is trying to devour itself. She has a message from Rogers waiting on her phone that she dismisses—lacks the patience for anything more than some food and her bed—and nearly _groans_ in exasperation when Loki's head over the back of the couch is the first thing she sees as she enters the penthouse. Faltering as she steps out of the lift, she glares when he doesn't look up from the laptop he has perched on his knees.

If this is his way of cornering her so they can have their _'talk'_ then maybe her concerns were well founded and _this_—whatever _this_ was—is more trouble than it's worth. She's not going to have someone force her into anything she doesn't want.

But then Loki shifts, reaching towards the coffee table to grab his mug and a covered file—and Natasha notices several foam containers of take-out littered in front of him.

"Did you save any of that for me?" Natasha blurts, forgetting her annoyance, blinded by hunger.

"That _is_ for you," Loki mutters tonelessly at his screen.

Natasha stares—feels something twist uncomfortably in her belly as her heart constricts at his words. Squeezing her eyes when they begin to sting, she pretends the burn behind her lids is from staring at her monitors for too long and not from the thought that Loki is both the most incredible and terrifying thing to happen to her life.

Releasing a breath, she moves forward behind the couch, dropping her arms over his shoulders and bending to press a kiss to the top of his head. Loki stills in her arms—then, hesitantly, brings a hand to curl around her bicep.

"What's that for?"

She sighs but doesn't move away—keeps her nose buried in his hair and takes a moment to savor his smell, ignoring the pangs of hunger from her stomach. "Nothing. It was a long day. And I missed you."

He's quiet for a moment, his hand slipping back to the laptop. Then, in a quiet murmur, "Did you?"

Instead of answering, Natasha tightens her hold and squeezes her eyes shut, inhaling slowly. He's wearing a black V-neck with his jeans and she hums at the slight bulge of muscles she can feel beneath the thin fabric.

Loki allows it for a minute. After a while, though, he leans forward, tugging himself away from her and snorting, "You need to eat. _Eat_."

With a huff, Natasha releases him and moves around to join him on the couch, grabbing the closest container. She slips out of her blazer so she's left only in a tank and resists a shiver when she can immediately feel his natural chill. With little regard to whatever he is working on, she shuffles on the couch until she's pressed into his side, kicking off her shoes before drawing her legs underneath her on the seat. Loki sighs in mild exasperation but shifts to accommodate her, draping an arm across her shoulders and leaving himself with only one hand to navigate the laptop.

Resting her head against his arm, she eats her sandwich and fries comfortably while she watches him work—figures out he's compiling his own findings on the various supers she'd asked him to look in on to add to the registry she's already put together. Every now and then, she whacks the corner of his lips with a fry until he opens his mouth to accept a bite and he nudges his chin to her forehead each time without further acknowledgment.

Things are still not okay. In fact, she thinks they're probably worse. Sitting next to Loki, sharing his silence—it's like she could spend the rest of her life like this and that's _wrong._ Natasha has never allowed a single thing to tie her down. Not her company, not her friends. She kept even Pepper and Rhodey at a distance. It bothers her how much comfort can be found in his touch and his smiles and hates every flip of her stomach at the mention of his name.

She can blame a number of different things for the way she is. Her absent father, distant mother, psychotic cousin—the manipulative Obadiah and every other person she's had in her life that isn't Happy or Pepper, because even _Rhodey_ had used her and lied to her and, though their friendship was something that even those minor betrayals could be forgiven, they were never forgotten. No betrayal was _ever_ forgotten.

There are a number of different reasons she could give for why she is the way that she is—but she isn't really sure any of them _matter._ The only thing she has ever relied upon is herself. Her intelligence and her wit and an independence gained at a young age when her father had shipped her off to learn how to be an adult.

"Usually when you're mad at me, I can expect a lot of yelling," Loki says after a moment, his hand still over the keyboard. She's not sure how long either of them have been sitting together, motionless as they allowed their thoughts to take precedence. A fry hangs loosely between her fingers on its way to her mouth and she lets it fall to the container when she realizes she's suddenly lost her appetite. "I'm not sure what to do with your silence."

With a sigh, she sits up so that only their thighs remain pressed together. She watches the night through the large balcony windows, careful as she chooses her words. "I'm not mad at you. I'm—it's me. I just have to figure things out for myself and it's got nothing to do with you." _Mostly_, she amends in her head, frowning. "I just need time."

Loki leans forward to press his mouth to the side of her head in a not-quite kiss. He hums, thoughtfully, "I thought we could be honest with each other."

"When are we _ever?_" She sneers, slamming the foam container shut and tossing it angrily onto the table where it skids and knocks into the other containers. "Don't give me that. All we _do _is lie to each other. I'm not an idiot. Don't treat me like one."

Loki nods, unperturbed, and presses a kiss to her temple, murmuring, "Alright."

Perhaps out of frustration or impatience, she twists to face him, catching his mouth with a kiss. In a breath, Loki chuckles incredulously against her mouth and she hears the clatter of the laptop as he hastily sets it on the table.

"Why do we always have to talk?" she mumbles breathlessly against his open mouth, twisting further against him so she can lay back against the seats of the couch. "We always argue when we talk."

"Maybe I like arguing," Loki grins, moving with her so he has one knee on the couch, his other leg in a half-kneel on the floor.

She sighs against his tongue, arching to give his hand room as he reaches beneath her shirt to unclasp her bra. The action is completely unnecessary when she knows he could just use magic to be rid of all clothing, but it makes her smile and bite down on his lower lip with a hum. "Here? Seriously?"

"Why not?" He huffs, burying his face into the crook of her neck, teeth tracing a pattern to her ear. Large hands at her hips adjusts her so they line up with his, and then a palm tracks the underside of her thigh, catching her knee to hook it over his thigh. Her other knee is trapped between his hip and the couch but she doesn't mind as the knee straddled by her thighs inches closer to her, teasing.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, accepting his mouth eagerly when it returns to hers. She grimaces at the pinch at the crook of her hip and thigh where her jeans dig uncomfortably into her skin—but then Loki's hand is moving almost prophetically to the clasp of her jeans—

And then Loki drops on her like a weight, teeth clicking against hers painfully and nipping into her lower lip.

"Ow! Lo, you bit—"

She doesn't finish, clutching at her mouth and the back of Loki's head numbly.

Standing behind the couch is Bruce, thick duffle bag rested on Loki's back to pin him in place.

He's smirking.

"I'm back."

* * *

**End Notes: **This chapter, miraculously, occurred faster. Mostly because many of these scenes had been written in advance, which I've done sporadically throughout the series. Nevertheless, excuse what mistakes you find. I've tried, but I've read this chapter through like six times and I'm blind to all errors at the moment.


End file.
